Grimm: A Fairy's Tale
by Krahae
Summary: Pre-Hogwarts. The stuff of legends, myth and majesty were the realm of the Fey long before wizards named him Boy Who Lived. Maeve of the Unseelie Court has decided to take one of wizarding kind's myths, to shape as her own. Vastly AU.
1. Prologue

From those familiar with my work, welcome to the obligatory Long Summary and Opening Notes.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry potter, which to my eternal dismay is why I can't put it down. Why can't I just come to grips with the epilogue...

**BIG INITIAL NOTE THINGY OF DOOM**. This is not, repeat! not a Dresden crossover. Mkay moving on...

There are no pairings. This is an age 11-12 fic, so the HHr note in the character list refers to the Friendship tag. Mmkay, thereyago.

Long Summary: Well. I guess the title should be fairly self explanatory, but really, I suppose the limited space and such allowed make these little chats between us necessary. The premise to this is summarized by a single ideal: Changeling. A child stolen, and placed under the auspice of the Fey. I took Lily's sacrifice and played with an idea, something filling out the blanks. Left an open check, and saw who would collect.

The Queen of the Unseelie Court sees his potential, and begins to lay her own plans. In time, she hopes to collect on a unique prize, but for now is content to let the wizards play their games.

Harry's first year is plagued by odd occurrences, missing his recent friends, and making new ones. A malevolent force from his past makes it's first move into his life, and the year ends with more questions, asked and asked of a number of sources.

This is currently a Year One and progressing story. There will be AU deviations. There will be significant changes based on happenstance. As time goes on, the variance between canon and this will increase. For practical purposes, I'm considering the 'HPVerse' a rough template. I'm changing some basics of magic to suit me, making it a little more sensible. A little logic never hurt anyone, right?

Those of you irritable at the flightyness of my muse will be happy to hear I've planned this whole bloody thing out, first year at least, in an outline that would make for a reasonably sized three-chapter story by my usual standards. 15,000 word outline anyone?

There are elements that may initially resemble Eden. Superficial, unconnected.

Beta for Outline and Chapters is Aiko, thank her for this being as cohesive as it is. On with it.


	2. Spirited Away

**Spirited Away**

_"What fools these mortals be..."_

James Potter knew with frightening certainty that tonight would be his last night on earth. That thought ricocheted around inside his skull as he rebounded off the wall supporting the riser, it's stairs leading up to the two most important things in his life. Choking back the well of blood in his mouth that rose up from gashing his tongue in the impact, the man rolled and lunged drunkenly out of the way of a fast series of spells, trailed by a sickly green howl. Resigned to the day, he cast a silent charm with his left hand, keeping his wand on the no-longer human before him. James' _Sonorous_ enhanced voice rattled the loose plaster and woodwork around him, "Lily! Get out!"

A hissing, half-bored laugh spat across the room at him, "You really are little more than a moronic figurehead of a dying time, James," Voldemort's words, laced with as much power as his spells, slapped at the wearied and bloodied man before him. James fell to a knee, the mental assault hammering at his mind, the faults and losses, the inevitability of not his own, but Lily and Harry's death replayed before him in stark detail over, and over. It changed, subtly each time but it was impossible to look away... the mind's eye had no lids to close.

Standing at about six feet, Voldemort let his enhanced magics batter at the woefully over classed buffoon before him. Not satisfied with simply personal power, years of study, ritual and sacrifice – not his of course – had gained him a breadth of abilities far outstripping all but a handful of wizards. Though the Potters and Longbottoms had defied his will three times, they had yet to face him. Such a poor showing, for such paragons of the Light.

Still musing on his tortures, Voldemort admired the bone-white arc of his fingers, recalling the work he'd placed in securing his place in this world. It's affects on him, his corporeal appearance, were negligible. Yet, he found the horror that his inhumanity inflicted on his victims to be a delectable spice to an already filling diversion. Gaunt, waxy skin stretched over his face, the bones sharp, elongated oddly. Overall it gave him a rather pleasant leer, he mused, watching as the Potter Scion shivered, convulsing under the weight of his will, slowly breaking him of all concepts of self and motivation. So much more satisfying, to savor each small, delicious and wrenching truth, shown indelible thought the mind's own failings, the Dark Lord considered. True, the Killing Curse was rather effective – yet quick, painless, nearly merciful. His glaring, bloody eyes narrowed. "No mercy, for those that oppose," he hissed in near sibilant tones.

This, a hallowing of the mind, rending the soul of all virtues, leaving a bleak, weary landscape of regret, loss and emptiness before snapping the life in two like the insignificant twig it was... yes. That was how to deal with an enemy.

As James bled out of his ears and eyes, the Dark Lord tired of the sport, clenching his bony fingers as the faint sound of meat rending reached his ears. Idly, a corner of his lip curled as he watched the body slowly begin to cool, soon to join the soul that fled moments before, it's heart crushed. Poetic.

Now, for the true sport.

Wards were only as good as their intent, and Tom Riddle knew that for all his spouting words of heavy intent and lofty promise, Dumbledore was little better than he. Oh, he had such grandiose justifications! Something dire and delectable lurked in the man's obsessions, his fervor for the 'Greater Good'. It stank of guilt, reeked of sin. With a slight chuckle, Voldemort considered how interesting it was, that his own changes made such things so blissfully apparent.

Vice was like fine art, after all. Many threw paint about randomly, but true masters were to be appreciated, regardless of their subject matter.

The Potter's wards fell easily enough, the Fidelius broken under a betrayal. His own intricately done wards, cast in _Parsel_ were impossible for the mudblood witch to unravel. He'd save Severus from his own folly... such a parcel as the soiled bitch that sired the Prophecy's brat would not do for one of his own to posses. Not when it... inspired such motivation.

He was the their Lord. He would be their only need for such fervor. All else was forbidden!

Groaning in mounting fear, Lily felt the ripping pain of James' life ending. With a choked sob she knew, all too soon the horror she'd heard laughing downstairs would be coming for her, and more importantly, Harry. She grasped at the useless portkey, a phoenix medallion again and desperately wished this time, please! for it to work... screaming in frustration she hurled the thing through a window. Voldemort's wards held her and Harry here, trapped.

She knew... though she hated it she knew that Dumbledore had somehow maneuvered her and James into this. The timing of that Prophecy, the man's eyes when he mentioned Sirius as a Secret-Keeper, the odd distance Remus suddenly developed, despite years of camaraderie... and Pettigrew. Sneering as she thought on the simpering, fat little traitor she only wished he were here for her to curse, happy to blacken her soul for the chance to take that thrice-damned bastard along for the ride.

Such musing were useless now. Desperate, knowing her skill in Charms to be excellent and what stock of defensive potions she had to be deadly, the prospect of a battle with the infant Harry in the room was impossible. If, by some chance she did defeat the Dark Lord, and by her actions killed Harry... shaking her head hard to clear the wail of terror and crushing anguish that idea left her, Lily knew she was simply the walking dead at this point.

James was dead. She would soon join him... and after her, unless something was done, Harry would soon follow. If she was to die... Forget the bloody Prophecy, she swore to herself, and promptly recalled one of the many scraps of lore, memorized for just such an occasion... collecting a strange bottle from a disillusioned portal that opened into her basement laboratory.

Lily ruefully recalled her own mother, so fastidious yet brutally logical. "Preparedness was the only way to confront life," she'd taught her daughters, Lily catching on to the idea with a passion. "Either you walk proudly into each hardship ready to do what you must, or you will let those hardships rule you." It was the basis of her life, really. To do what she must, because it was the only way to live. She tempered it was compassion, another lesson she'd learned, but those things still ruled her. With such lessons in mind, she lifted the small blue glass to her lips.

The bottle of liquid ice and smoke burned her lips and tongue as it seemed to freeze it's way down her throat. Her vision grayed at the edges, as the thing took hold of her magic, opening her eyes to something most people would gladly die without ever learning.

Around her the world rippled, as the light veil of perception, her own and the one her mind had carefully constructed to protect her, sheared away. The walls darkened, light hazing, and as the clock ticked that much closer to midnight, she couldn't help but laugh bitterly at the cliché of it all. All around her, the weave of magic itself pulsed, making the world seem as if painted on coarse burlap. Still, in a terrifying way, it was beautiful... looking briefly out the window she could see the night opening up like a great silver dawn, the sky alight with things that moved without sight, coiling endlessly above the Middleworld, keeping those bound between soil and spirit firmly in their place.

In this places, half alive, half dead, she performed the ritual, a stunningly simple thing really. There were many such things, all with the single distasteful issue that set most wizards scurrying away in panic from their completion. Smirking coolly, she realized, at this point, her life was the one component she had all rights to give. The sting of her old, careworn potions knife seemed distant and hazy as her heart jerked, the foreign coolness of metal a curious sensation in her chest.

Time was failing... with a desperation lent by her need, she formed the impression she wanted. The ripple of her magical core dumping out into the magical fabric around her, bearing her plea made Lily gasp. Before the blackness could overwhelm her though, she noted the sickly, black and vile haze that was the stunted monster that sought her son's life. With the last of her strength, she shambled up, snarling, hands pooling her heart's blood and flinging it at the man who'd destroyed her life.

"A Curse, of life unlived! A Curse, your goals made ash! You will not have Harry!" Spitting with the last of her strength, Lily crumpled, dead before the shocked Voldemort's nearly impulsive spell swept pointlessly over her, blowing red hair back in an impotent wind.

Voldemort had never... felt such rage bent against him. Reaching up he numbly wiped the blood from his forehead, where it had splattered. Traitors, families and whole clans had fallen before him, fallen as one or in order, but this... a grudging respect for the mudblood's depth of hate and rage was quickly quelled. Looking up to the crib, his red eyes narrowed.

Goals, he knew, were the point of plans, and plans the seat of power. His goal was nearly done. With the Prophecy destroyed before it could be done, his place would be secure. A doubt niggled at him, despite his assured calm.

With a cruel smile, the Dark Lord realized that tonight, his rule would be assured. Tonight, what resistance was left against him would be crushed, the spirit ripped free and left to wail for what few years there were fools left to listen, as he mowed down their ranks with a cold vengeance. None would stand... His future glory in mind, he debated visiting the Headmaster one last time, knowing the man would be broken utterly with his plans in such disarray. Gryffindor's relic, he decided, would be a simple thing.

What better way to ensure his rule, than to have the very root of the ancient traditions binding Hogwarts, bent to his will. Yes, the Sorting Hat... such an innocuous device. Possibly the most overlooked artifact in all of Britain. Invaluable for preparing an army, or subduing an entire population, by breaking their minds as they come to learn. Possessed by him, the thing would gladly use it's considerable powers to do just that.

Preparing his mental shields to withstand the additional shear of the spell he cast against himself in making the soul fragment, Voldemort spared the oblivious brat a terrifying smile.

"You, will be the last. The greatest and my keystone to rule. Thank you, and goodbye, Harry Potter!" As he bent down, a drop of the blood Lily had thrown slipped free of his pale cheek, lighting on Harry's forehead. Knowing Prophecies were wicked things, Tom knew that any mark he may make on the boy would possibly trigger the thing... so instead, he decided to be... merciful.

_"Aveda Kedavra!"_

',',',',',','

Maeve looked down with some amusement as her work was done. The spirit of Lily Potter shifted nearby, until the remainder of the green light that had flooded the room faded, leaving a still sleeping Harry Potter, and a very much discorporated Tom Riddle. No longer able to keep herself from being drawn away, Lily parted with a sense of sad accomplishment.

As things of her nature were, Maeve was no stranger in any way to death, natural or otherwise. This day's events, the ones around the Potter home most particularly, pulled her interest. This was unusual, as her typical activities on this most... holy night were some of the things she looked forward to for much of the summer year. Still, the dead woman's plea was sweet enough, and promised some terribly interesting sport.

_Ah yes, the boy_... Maeve let her form crystallize out of the air, looking like nothing less than frost spreading amazingly fast on glass, before the form of a slight, lithe woman seemed to bend and shape herself from that frost. Walking forward in the guise of a woman, naked and with skin rimed in frost and deep blues, Maeve peered down with a passing for human eyes at the human whelp, the strands of destiny and fate wrapped around him so tightly she was quietly amazed he still drew breath. Eyes the color of onyx, wide and curious blinked once at the sleeping infant, as errant hair the shade of snow fell forward to obscure her vision. Considering the role of savior the boy had to fulfill for his world, the Queen of Air and Darkness, Lady Winter, most often whispered as the Unseelie Queen, tapped her chin in thought, frostbite blue lips pursed.

Maeve's voice carried with it the sound of howling winds and the hollow chimes of ice falling, "Your mother, child, gave her life to have your's spared. Yet, I wonder if these strings that so deftly bind you will truly let such a things come to pass." She was well aware of the festering soul rot that was contained, stunned and dormant, bound to the scar the boy now held. She frowned as her thumb rubbed the blood from the wound, the Rune _Sigel_ glaring up at her, as if in defiance in it's very shape. "Marked in the name of the sun?" The air in the room began to crystallize, water condensing into brief snow that drifted like dust. So some fate would have him be bound to the light? She read the strings, being sometimes the instrument of those same weavers... her role was done: arbitrate the sacrifice, conclude the Curse and ritual. Yet...

With a cruel gleam to her eyes, Maeve reached out, her hand gleaming like jagged ice. The threads parted with a sound like children wailing under wicked blades, the very room shuddering as she disregarded the pattern that had been carefully wound about this supposed Chosen One that the wizards would need.

"What curious sport this will be..." she murmured, smiling as the world around her warmed, her own form fading like so much vapor.

',',',',',','

Moments later, Hagrid on orders from Dumbledore arrived, riding the bike he'd borrowed from Sirius. The man'd not miss it for the afternoon he figured, and besides, this was an errand for Dumbledore himself. Took more precedent than little details like permissions and the like to come between the Headmaster and his work.

Sitting the bike, magically adjusting through it's charms to the half-giant's size, down by the Potter's home, Hagrid looked up at the blown out upper story with a sad expression. The Potters are... were good folk, really. He'd hoped the Headmaster was wrong about them, but knew when he saw the cottage it was a done thing.

Whatever had crossed them had come and already gone. Hagrid kneeled through the door and turned sharply, avoiding looking at the broken man laying, staring up at the ceiling. Mincing across the broken room, Hagrid took the stairs quickly, stopping in horror at the top.

There, crumpled on her knees and braced lightly against the crib itself, Lily Potter still sat, eyes closed with a look of grim satisfaction on her face. Blossoming from her chest was a great gout of blood, fixed in it's center, making the whole thing look like her namesake bloom, a silver knife. About her skin was a blue tinge, something unnatural but Hagrid didn't dare linger. Before her, a pool of black robe lay, which the half-giant minced around nervously, as if were a sleeping Lethifold.

_"Go, Hagrid. The worst has surely happened, and we must secure what we can. Harry is in great danger until we have him. Go, find the boy, bring him to this address,"_ Dumbledore's words echoed in his mind, as Hagrid gently scooped up the young one, tucking his blankets about him.

Not at all happy about the Potters and not having time to put them to rights, Hagrid sped shamed out of the home. In moments he was flying, on his way to Surrey.

',',',',',','

Maeve watched, raven's eyes bright as he became a spec in the distance. The next step had been done... the boy stolen away from his home and rightful place. Her wings ruffled in a contented shift. Unconcerned at the half-giant's departure, she waited patiently, seeing fate's threads tense and pull again. The next player was due...

Sirius disapparated with a crack and fell to his knees, already knowing what to expect. He'd arrived not at the ward line, but by the door... which means the wards had failed, and likely his friends...

Stumbling, already exhausted from the fights he'd been called in on by the Order to help with, he fell again when he saw the lifeless, staring eyes of James. "No... nooo, not now!" Throwing an arm across the cold form of his best friend, Sirius finally let the anger and loss of the day catch up, the sight of those he considered more valuable than his own life snuffed out so, finally breaking him.

"Damn this... stupid _cocked_ up world," he spat, magic flaring and throwing furniture about randomly. With a gesture remarkably gentle after his words and unruly magic, Sirius reached up and closed his best mate's eyes. Resting his forehead on the man's chest. "No time for sorrow. Not yet, time later but not now," he murmured, stumbling back up in a way reminiscent of James only an hour before.

Racing up the stairs, he choked back a sob but the thin wail of his voice still escaped. Lily kneeled, not in submission but because she simply could not stand, dead, there before him. Defiant to the end, he noted with a savage respect for the fiery woman, recognizing the hints of the spell she'd cast.

Ancient magics, obscure but locked not in books of research but in myth. Discounted by most, the old adage that all myth, all legends were in some way grounded in truth, the old magics were real, if hard to understand. Riddles weren't his forte, but to Lily, they were the only silver lining to this forced near-exile.

"Lot of bloody good it did!" The last son of the House of Black snarled, vision swimming from his own injuries and exhaustion. Dumbledore's plan, oh yes. Dumbledore's vaulted, perfect, perfectly idiotic plans! Pettigrew! Stalking over to the crib and savagely stomping on the robes that were laying like a filthy stain on the carpet, Sirius knew that he'd find in the crib.

His lips worked, as if he were fighting to keep vile words behind them. Spinning in place he apparated starting the hunt for the traitor, the man who'd sold the only people Sirius loved to a Dark Lord.

The rightful family's loss witnessed, Maeve spread ebon wings and faded in a raven's call and a fall of feather.

',',',',',','

Maeve let her errant thoughts focus on the child, being handed off like a sacred relic below her. The initial game would be amusing, she knew, up to a point. Then she could harvest, and let the real sport begin.

First though there were ancient rules, ones even she must abide. A length of time, that must be undisturbed. Later, there would be revelations. Letting their Chosen One grow with his coarse, boorish family would be a perfect stage, upon which to organize her players, and hide the things she'd do in plain sight.

To keep her will on track, she needed this place... Surrey as the dull things that lived there called it, more fertile for her work. Already she had seeded the place, weakening the bonds between this and the Middleworld. Fey were odd things, and being as much magic as substance, needed more than simple food and an uninspired roof to hide beneath. Pulling such a large tract of land deeper into the Twilight world was made easy by the recent transition day, Samhain being the juncture where the Summer Court ceded the world to her own. A fortuitous day indeed.

Such a thing had not been done in recent ages. The thoughts of the Courts had turned inward, despite her own disagreement. As so often, Summer had decided for the better of all, that the Folk should withdraw, not interfere. Fools. Maeve knew that with the fading glory of the virtuous inspirations; art, chivalry, adventure, vainglorious quests, feats of power and their like – without these old crutches in the mortal real to lean upon, the oh-so moral Summer Court would shrivel, reach a nadir and be forced to adapt. The political gesturing was simply a stall, to keep her own Court ignorant that their numbers were growing dim. A wicked laugh broke from her then, winter winds blasting across those below, speaking of snow and sleet and dim days.

Change was the antithesis of the Summer Fey. They reveled in their eternal languor, content with the simple pleasures and the simple fare of the warm months, and their influence. Was not spring the lover's season? Summer the height of nature's glory? Beauty inspired in it's own right, and they did little work. The more noble needed complex fare to sustain themselves, and it was this that had grown so sparse in the later, modern, drear world. Dismissing her thoughts on the other Court and their toothless threat, Maeve regarded the land below her. In a year, it would be fertile enough, the inertia of her act settling the borders the thinnest but for a handful of places around the world. With a happy smile, she realized it left her feeling slightly worked.

Her Fey would be about, by the time he needed them. Later, they would prove most... useful.

Despite her, Maeve's thoughts returned Courts. This world had grown cool, where once it burned fierce and bright with magic. She had precious few other than her own kind to blame of course – it was the Fey's duty to spread such inspiration among the mortals. That the Seelie had lost their footholds in mortal hearts, had let the vital stuff of legends and myths grow dim and cold in their hearts was their own, weak-willed fault.

Her people were not weak, or lazy. Oh no. Virtuous, not at all, but certainly they had a vigor to which they pursued their purpose. Fear, anxiety, hunger, envy, frustrations... her Folk were quite busy. That vital spark fueled the stuff of magic, made it dense, pliable. Magic beget magic, and the more there was, the better for her. So long now, though, mortal thoughts had turned away from the fantastic, and dwelled on the mundane. Lives spent like cogs in some machine. _No life, no vitality!_ Perhaps... were she to foster this young one differently, take the weight of Fate's weaving and ply it in a different way? Already he had the stirrings of some greatness, which she knew the petty, nearly senile old would-be-weaver himself would capitalize on, to save his own crippled way of life. Perhaps the child would be better suited to a more interesting fate...

Seeing the pattern start to form, Maeve smiled gleefully, sitting upon a distant breath of air as she watched the self-righteous old fool take the final steps in securing her most recent diversion. A wonderful diversion, and perhaps a chance for some fantastic and more importantly, inspiring plans to come to pass. Her smile broke in a rift of cruel teeth and jagged laughter, sounds like winter storms in narrow valleys. Oh what a terrible and lovely game it would be...

',',',',',','

Dumbledore sighed, the bundle in his arms the heaviest he'd ever born.

Was it worth it, he asked himself again? How many times? The Dark Lord... truly he was responsible. Albus thought on that phrase and sighed. "He", Tom or himself, certainly was.

Reaching the doorstep, he bent in a gust of chill air, it's threat of snow heavy. Shaking off the chill it sent through him, Dumbledore lay the still sleeping infant down, a note tendered just inside his blankets. Looking over the youth for the last time, knowing he'd not return for many years, he felt it curious that the recoil of the Prophecy's action would mark Harry with an actual scar Sadly he didn't have the time, didn't dare spare the risk to study it.

Voldemort's forces would, for a time, be rabid in their aggression, trying in desperation to route resistance and show that they had not suffered such a loss, and later that they had no need for the Dark Lord to continue their vile crusade. Indeed, Snape spoke of power struggles and disorganization already – truly men were little more than sheep when the shepherds were lacking.

Which is why he had to do this. Without his actions, Voldemort would still be at large. How many died, every day, to the man's reign of madness? Two lives for the war, he reasoned, were a gentle sacrifice.

Dragging himself out of his introspective justifications, Dumbledore favored his Deputy a wry smile. "They will see to him, Minerva. Do not fear for young Harry."

"I do, and you know it, Headmaster," her words were thick, heavy with the woman's accent. Dumbledore did not miss the response to the use of her first name, with address in turn only to his station. McGonagall was not pleased by this turn of events, and in truth felt that Albus had gone too far. Sirius was only missing for hours, and yet he'd acted as if he knew something... why bring the child here? What point in denying his parent's wishes?

And she knew their wishes, as witness to the wills they'd made. "Why? Why not Frank and Alice? Or Sirius – Gods Headmaster, are you so intent on these plans you'd jeopardize not only your position but the status of the ICW in Britain?"

He knew well what would happen, were his actions to come to light in these events. The ICW was a moral compass, a body of wizards that could be relied upon to simply do what was right. The sad truth was they were likely the least moral people in the world, but the Good was often done by actions of small Evils, to curtail the greater. His own... tying up Sirius so he was not available to answer James' summons with a nearly suicidal mission. Making sure Remus was also indisposed, unable to escape to help. Subtle mistakes in the wards, disrupting their notification to the Ministry. The discussions with James, convincing the man that with his relationship to Lily settling in, that the ally he'd made in Peter was waning, and how he could ill-afford an enemy now. Urging him to rebuild his friendship, give the man something to feel proud of. More words, urgings, suggestions, reminding James that Sirius' brother himself was a minion to the Dark Lord...

It worked, of course. Peter was made Secret-Keeper, to the objection of nearly everyone. The plan would succeed, and follow the Prophecy. It had to, if they ever wanted to be free from the Dark Lord's influence. Such was his role, being able to see these things, know how evil moved and grew and flourished, and alternately, how to put it down. Tom would not stay dead... this he knew. He had made his Horcruxes and for now, they were intimately guarded, but in time, Harry's time, they would be vulnerable. A decade of peace, but with a lasting calm soon after. The boy would do his part, trained and lead by himself, his fate fulfilled and the final victory won.

Albus wondered at the scrutiny of Minerva, one of the few he trusted to witness this course of action, and her questioning of his wisdom. Her concerns held some merit of course, but she simply could not see the bigger picture, did not understand the gravity of what _had_ to be, in order to prevent what _could_ be. Dismissing his momentary indecision, the Headmaster acknowledged his Deputy, but continued to the door. The Dursley home would be Harry's. McGonagall would, in time, come to see this, unfortunately time wasn't something he could spare the woman here, now. With a soft pop, Dumbledore and his retinue departed, leaving Harry to be found by a shocked and incredulous Petunia Dursley. Dumbledore trusted their momentary disquiet would pass, and took comfort in his decision. It was as it _had_ to be.

',',',',',','

After a brief bout of screaming and accusation, the young man was unceremoniously dumped with little more than a crib mattress and a brief sheet in the cupboard. Knowing time in ways few mortals understood, Maeve frowned, as she leaned against the wall, watching over Harry as the infant slept, the play of time showing her things to come. That the Winter Prince would be treated so...

Has she already been so decided? With a rueful smirk, she nodded once, knowing well that tonight's grand disruption and chaos would send out a wave through Fate's web that would send the Spider herself into fits. Still... shaking her head to quell the images of the boorish, fat, pathetic excuses for dross that lay rutting like pigs or wallowing in their own soiled bedding above, and the terrible things she wished visit on them for sins uncommitted, Maeve tilted her head to regard the boy again.

Kneeling down, she ran a hand through the boy's brief hair, seeing it's blue highlights brighten. "Stolen away from your proper world, you were. Left to those who do not care. To your family will be left a mockery – a myth, to hold your place." Already her Court, now preeminent and ruling the failing months, spread the word and inspiration for these falsehoods. An image, of myth and legend, to take the place of the child she would steal.

Regarding the brilliant green eyes that watched her now, Maeve smiled. The tiny baby smiled back, delighted at the lights playing about in her depthless black eyes. "You will be mine, little Winter," reaching up, she traced the rapidly healing scar, watching the baby's expression fall when the pain of her finger upon it distracted him.

"The light may want you, circumstances marking you their's," she said with quiet determination, before shivering, wings like rime-blown water spreading out gossamer, drifting on unseen currents behind her. A delicate hand reached back, and with brutal efficiency, she snapped free a spine of ice and shivering dark, laying it upon the child that lay, murmuring and kicking occasionally in his faint waking.

Maeve leaned forward, lighting her lips upon the Sun Rune scar, a sign of the Summer Court, as the fragment of herself dissolved into the child. Burbling happily, Harry's tiny hands reached up and tugged at her pale hair, curving her lips up into a smile. "They forget," she whispered, watching the boy in rapt attention as the bond she made spread between them, "that even deepest winter has it's cold, inevitable dawn.

"Sleep well, my Changeling."

',',',',',','

rev 2, 4/21/09


	3. Changeling

**Changeling**

_"Respect is something you gain by being better than your peers. Earning respect is simply the act of making sure you remain so." -Maeve_

_Time_.

The concept, the idea of it's linearity was lost on Fey. The easy reason, Maeve considered, was that Fey have so few links to things that would make such an idea matter. Not so for her... but the Court as a whole, either of them, spared such ideas little concern. Magic and it's nature, how time flowed around it, through it, gave creatures like themselves more insight. A human ideal, but she thought it fit. Fey had a timelessness to them that was natural, granted by their form of immortality.

Oh, Fey could die. Be undone. The ideas that spawned them, the primal fears and joys could evaporate, leaving the vital inspiration that formed them out of magic to dry up and wither, taking them with it. That was true death. Little deaths were for some, such mundane things as simply bleeding out, or being faced with canny weapons, or rituals. For others like herself, it would take nothing short of that true death to cause her to cease. In time all Fey recovered, rebuilt themselves from the essence of their primal ideal, if subjected to the little death. Iron of course could harm them, when they touched the world of men, and this was dangerous... Fey suffered mightily from Iron in ways that were horrifying even to Maeve. Some of the more vile of her Folk feared silver as well. Maeve narrowed her eyes, wondering where these musings on mortality sprang, such a foreign thing. Her mind turned to a small child then... The possible reason, the why of it brought a howling gale thought the Court, the Winter Queen's discomfort a physical thing here. Eyes in all colors and shapes and places about the sprawling chambers turned to her.

Maeve's stared back, eyes black as winter night, scanning across those gathered. Courts were not formal, oh no... not hers at least. Assembled were those that could sustain their own ideals in the light of their peers. It was an informal ranking, but effective. Were a lesser Sidhe to show it's face here, likely the Redcaps, or the Skitterkin would rend it to bloody tatters for sport.

Her Folk knew that such things that they gathered from mortals and those that think and dream, were just as easily gained from Fey as well. Terror and desperation were just another form of inspiration, and Fey were no more immune to them than those that initially dreamed them. Around her were the epitome of the Winter Court. Vicious things whose simple appearance would incite terrors, who's words would shatter minds. The darkest of the dreamed. Demons and nightmares frolicking and feeding, lounging and languid in the embrace of deepest dream.

And yet, she found them lacking.

Complacency... the timelessness of Fey, the very things that made them immortal had allowed the Folk to rot, from the inside out. She felt it delicious irony that the grand, powerful Fey, who's nature was so dark and unwholesome that legends and myths still were spoken of them, languished here, like fat, overfed spiders and yet did nothing themselves. The irony being that some Skitterkin, born of the very fear of those alien, eight-legged things, were doing just that. They had become the very bane in those that dream, that they bemoan and worried over. Complacent and bored, lazy.

Mortals had dreamed them. Still dreamed them. Pulled them with primal fears, hopes and desires from the stuff of magic. Building their first gods to fill a void that in thinking and dreaming and being aware of their own selves, had opened. That separation from the nature that birthed them, was the void, but in thinking and looking beyond the self, it was forever to gape. A reminder of the cost, for leaving sacred Eden. All living things dreamed, and from those slight, sometimes simple minds, the earliest of the Folk sprang. Sprites and Sylphs, Salamanders, those primal ideals of flight, fire, unseen and staring things. Then, when minds became so complex as to see in the world the acts of gods, of great powers that simply must be, those desires took form. The primal ideal birthed Fey, to fill the void that was left. Tied to nature and the things that those that dream had left behind, the Folk took up the task of being the bringers of those same grand ideals that had spawned them.

Maeve herself was the Winter Queen. Lady of Ice. Ruler of the Unseelie. The Queen of Air and Darkness. From the first cold, deadly winter was she born, the bleak, cold months of creeping death. Beautiful and unapproachable, unstoppable but for the passing of time itself. Her touch could be sheltered from, but winter unfolded all about, regardless. She was the chill wind that stole breath, the biting storm that blinded eyes. She was the perfect carpet of glittering, pristine, and beautiful snow, hiding the bones and staring eyes of a frozen world. Later, her power only grew, as winter became a fear from war, was used for war. Then, again, when the distance stars were known to reside in a true winter – utter lack and cold. No other could touch her. Above all other Unseelie she sat, and in them she found a fundamental _lack_.

Fey were ideals. Inspirations. Muses. Nightmares. Boogeymen. Those things that brought forth the best and worst in those that dream and think. From those ideas, Fey returned, feeding and nurturing. The Seelie, the Bright and Summer Court fostered hope, joy, virtues and such... niceties. Her Court were the devourers, the skittering things, the creep and crawl, the sudden dark. Moonlit shadows on autumn nights, and the creak and groan of great flows of ice

Maeve looked out over her Court again, as the Unseelie host wandering in and out, or simply taking leisure in her Palace. Her throne and seat were deep in the Middleworld, not for security, but more as a comfort. Here, the ideas and dreams of thinking things flowed, a powerful, heady spring of life for her people. The Middleworld was the place nightmares drew substance, where souls too heavy with their own guilt and sense of sin fell. Such things were polar, and though the Unseelie could sustain themselves on the lighter sources, it was nature, their own, that brought them here.

That and her summons. Standing, Maeve brought the chattering, chittering and whispering of her Folk to a still. "I would address those that would hear me," she spoke, quietly, yet the words boomed from the throne, setting rime and frost across many faces. This deep into the Middleworld, powerful Fey like Maeve could literally alter the stuff of it by will alone. Her informal address was less a call to peers, as to those Fey so strong in their own ideals that they could withstand being annihilated by her presence.

"We have come, Lady Winter," a grand shambling thing of stone and rock rumbled. Constantly it's face, massive like a mountainside creaked and groaned. Sudden fits took the thing, as it's body shifted in small cataclysms, undoing beautiful crystal formations and delicate constructs of stone and mineral.

"We would hear," clicking and hissing voices stuttered, issuing from mandibled jaws of things that could only be described as alien, if not for the eight arching legs, the same number of glittering eyes, and the feeling if sometimes not the seeming of spiders. Skitterkin.

Others approached, those not rimed or blasted back by her words with frost and chill lingering and numbing them. A grand beast that looked like nothing more than savage intent made form. There, a horse the size of a human home, flesh the color of death and eyes like writhing, glowing worms, where below dripped ever-bleeding fangs. Beside it stepped forward a shade, human in form yet indistinguishable from any other, but for the glint of steel and edge ever flicking about it's depths, always when your eyes drifted to the side. Others came, representatives of their kith and kin. Redcaps, their bloody raiments dripping forever along their hair and skin, sharklike maws hidden behind mischievous half smiles. Creeping along were Sluagh, those born of the taboo fear of the dead, and so they held that guise – slinking, boneless and with pale gray skin, their hair lank and dark with filth as yellowed eyes looked back to her. The bestial, the brutal, the savage and subtle all crowded about. Some, born of men held human forms, while others were more fundamental, breaching the spectrum of the dreamers. She was one of those.

Maeve spared her Court a small nod. "We lose the battle for dreams. More pass into nothing each day, yet less are dreamed to fill their loss. What does Winter answer to these crimes?"

Nervousness swept the assembled. Maeve ruled her Folk absolutely, where in Summer Titania was judicious, forgiving... such things were alien here. Their forms followed, and often were, their function, and the minds that dwelled within mirrored that cold brutality. Her words cut into them, bringing forward in stark light the fears they had held, worries unspoken.

A Puka, beings usually of simple forms, changing between human and animal, spoke next. It's savage guise gave the otherwise neutral Sidhe it's place here, obviously from the darker fears of predators and those things that rend, "Magic wanes, the dreamers distance themselves from us. What can we do?"

And there, Maeve knew, was the problem. Part of it. Fey were nothing without the dreamers, and yet, the dreamers could not live without the Fey. What purpose a life without the things to drive it? Without motivations, without those wild ideals, what would living be?

Each side of the veil was failing the other, and Maeve could see no _simple_ way to solve the problem. She had a solution... the Winter Queen allowed herself a private smile. The Folk grew more human the longer they existed, the more complex their dreaming was, the more human it seemed the Fey were. Thus, into their own ideals were seeded the nature of their demise. Bitter irony it may be, but Maeve did not absolve her own from what she saw was a grave sin.

"Complacent," she gave word to the idea she hated, and it blasted the flesh and soft matter from the Puka, leaving a frozen skeleton, grinning back to her in it's gratitude. Other Fey shifted, knowing now it would be a wrathful day, their Queen's anger bright. "Do we empower ourselves with sloth," she hissed out, and even the shambling mountain creaked with the force of cold that washed off her diamond throne.

None of those present answered.

"We are Unseelie," she stated, quieter. "Our revels are nightmare. Our frolics the stuff of madness. We inspire the dark within. Our voices are fear. In our very breath, we fuel the flight in terror for life," walking down from her high place, the assembled shivered, wanting nothing to do with the Queen's wrath. It was a curious sight, as the Lady of Ice, lithe and small of frame, swept down and parted the hideous and sometimes massive attendants of the Court. Continuing, Maeve's voice crackled over them, a glacier shattering, "Why do we, who take such satisfaction from our work, find ourselves failing and falling?"

A brave Redcap kneeled, refusing to meet Maeve's eyes, "Their secrets, My Queen. The wizarding folk seek from fear, to take magic from the world at large. They hoard not only the art, but the knowledge."

It's words were truth. Maeve nodded, and the bloody Scion gratefully stepped back. To her, who watched the world above carefully, this was not news. Time... again that blessing of being unchained by it's passing started feeling more a curse. Hundreds of years passed while this very plan her Court spoke of continued, yet only when it actually touched them, centuries later did it begin to matter. Yet, at least they were not wholly blind... "This they do, and this has weakened us," she commiserated. "I find it no excuse," she countered, but did not lash out at the now scuttling Redcap. Turning back to her throne she flowed back to it in a wash of rime-shot shadow. "Let the Seelie Court languish in their slow death, depending on the dreamers to grant them sustenance. We will take it. Rend it from dying minds and hearts."

The Court looked up, their essence, their Queen resonating within them. "We are Unseelie. We are not those who wait, we are the predators of dreams. We do not abide, we spring and rend from them what we are. Let none in this Court lay _complacent_ in my presence," she concluded, as many of the greater Sidhe, grown fat and lazy with æons of sloth grumbled and muttered their dissatisfaction. Was she calling for all to go forth and play at inspiring dreams again? Was she denying them the rewards of work they'd done for æons?

A clap of power, the boom of a mountain faulting as glaciers break it's bones silenced them. "Would you challenge my will?"

Shambling forward, one of the Deadguised, a Sluagh, bowed deeply. It's curious joints and flowing, ever-shifting dead flesh making it seem a thing of water and less structure, "We would not challenge, Lady Winter," it simpered, voice an eternal whisper. "We would hear what our Queen has done to inspire her Court."

Maeve raised a delicate, frosted brow. Oho. Intrigue _did_ still exist in her people it seemed, and here was proof. Like children they needed to see her acting as well as she spoke. Well, speaking of children, she mused, let us waste not such a prime opportunity, "I plan to take a changeling."

Silence reigned over the court, as Maeve stilled her laughter, burying it deep within. Still, snows fell and dusted those nearest her, in her mirth. She listened through that cold, the clinging snows, for their opinions and plans. "A changeling, my Lady?"

The Sluagh's nearly disbelieving tone had her tilting her head and with narrowed eyes, she replied, "Yes. One to spread my influence, from within. An ambassador, if you will."

"You seek to treat with the dreamers, then?" The Sluagh asked, incredulous. As the words left the dead-seeming thing, it shook, understanding it had sealed it's fate with them. The Deadguised choked out a small sound then, as Maeve's irritation at the thing's lack of tact and place won over her restraint. Those near backed away as it's skin slowed it's perpetual flow, growing blue and chill. It did not shiver, or chatter it's death's-head jaw, as what it had that passed for blood froze solid in it's veins.

Maeve looked down, eyes the pits between stars. "I do not 'treat' with anyone. I will place a seed of my own there. Upon a player most critical, most visual I will work my will. None will be unseeing of the thing I have done," she snapped out, a hail of stinging stones raining upon the Court, sending the smaller Fey to seek cover under the greater. Standing then, Maeve flared her wings as the hail stopped with barely a whisper. "Do you see, my Court? Your Queen is not _complacent_," spitting the hated word, she snapped dainty fingers.

The frozen Sluagh, unmoving but for terrified eyes, cracked as if struck by a great hammer, the portions of it's body falling in a slow, noisome cascade upon the floor.

As Maeve stood, the winds and storm that surround the Winter Queen most times rose up, a pillar of deadly cold and tearing hail that formed a wall between her throne and the Court. From within, she skipped to her throne, a smile curving across her lips.

The Court was in an uproar. A _changeling_? Not just any, but the Queen's own... plans and plots were made, then. Assassinations, alliances, spies. When she made her move to claim a dreamer as her own, the grand players, those with an eye to grander influence and power, would move in turn. They could not act against her directly... but if they could entrap or work with or against her interests, it would undermine her. Or, this is what they believed.

Lady Winter was magnitudes above the other Fey, but like them, she was still only a Fey. Lessen her own ideal, and magic would do the same with the world. Winter's bite would become less fierce, and her power wane. A vicious and brilliant cycle. She had no intent on letting her teeth grow dull, or brittle.

Some supposed this an act of masked suicide. She grew old and tired, and it was time, and this weakness her own way to speak to her Court and offer them the first blow.

Fools.

Now those that plot and plan would be made obvious, while her changeling, years made and growing, matured. When she moved to claim her Scion, it would be far, far too late for those of her or the Summer Court to act. Maeve laughed and the pillar bloomed with it, washing the Court that remained in a fall of snow. She would unmake those that would act against her, and they would all wait and watch for the defenseless child that they could bend, or break to weaken her. A child that would never come, because he had already.

What they would find, simple, stupid Folk, was a nexus of fate so powerful even she could not destroy it. Yes, she tore many a strand free from the child, letting fate weave in different ways, but some were too vital to ignore. Maeve smiled, breathing in the sweet scent of preeminence. Honor was a lie, and the truth just a convenience of admission. Why should she deal with _her_ Court, as if she were the bitch Titania?

She was Queen of the Unseelie for a reason, after all.

',',',',',','

Another book, precious and rare, flared into a brief blaze before the magics inside combined with the enchanted fire undid it's binding, consuming the tome in a few moments. Dumbledore stood, stone faced as he fed the flames knowledge that could possibly never be reclaimed. With those tomes, he added his own memories. Silvered threads in vials were tossed with little regard onto the flames as well, sputtering with phantom images briefly before expiring.

His last... _visit_ to Gellert had been... Albus reached up and ran his fingers along the crook of his nose, searching for the proper words to describe it.

The road to hell, he'd heard from many sources, was paved with good intentions. He had little hope for his own soul's rest, knowing well it's weight. Lies to the world did not mean his talent worked so well for himself. Nearly half a century... how could he have been so blind? Knowledge and experience were grand tools, and hard-won gifts that any should treasure, but like the precious things they were, so often they were abused. Ignored, even, he admitted bitterly. Unbidden, the aged and wasted face of his most dear friend rose to haunt him again...

_Laughing, the sound like crackling paper, Gellert watched as Albus paced about the room, his tiny prison cell in the pinnacle of Nurmengard. "And how did I know, that you would do this?"_

_Dumbledore looked back at the man, at once wary and weary of their old connection. That age-old bond formed from battle, hardship, respect, compassion and history. "I wonder at that myself."_

_"Good. That's the first step in what could be undoing your greatest mistakes."_

_Eyes narrowed, Albus sat before the man, probing at his mind harshly. Grindelwald, though defeated, was not defenseless, and smiled mirthlessly as he slapped the Headmaster's mind away like a flea. "Stop it, Albus. You know you won't get past."_

_In a comically immature fit of pique, Dumbledore stomped a foot and glared at the smiling mummy before him. "Damn it all, Gellert! What do you know? Why is it this... specter of you haunts me so now? What have you done to my mind?"_

_Faded blue eyes looked up with less than loathing, more than humor, "I? I have done nothing." At Dumbledore's dismissive snort, Gellert sat up, sighing with a sound like leaves rattling against windows. "Tell me, Albus... have you ever studied psychology?"_

_And then he'd opened his mind up, and pushed what Dumbledore would know to be truth to the fore. Taking it greedily, Albus missed the sad, resigned sigh that Gellert breathed before laying back, knowing well that in his blind rush to understand, a trait so very familiar, Dumbledore would need time... much time, to accept something so simple._

_Hours of locked eye contact left both aged men reeling and blinking furiously, their saving grace the magic they still held, keeping their eyes undamaged. Albus was stunned, speechless, impotent to do more than reel about within his own mind for many long minutes._

_"Magic is a wonderful and dangerous thing, Albus," Gellert's voice, dry and broken roused him from the seeming hours of replaying his last few decades. "I warned you Albus. Warned you to stay away and forget me."_

_"I could not," the Headmaster's voice replied softly, not even a whisper. "I should have. I see this. But I could not."_

_"And now, you must."_

_Albus merely nodded. "These... problems. Personality breakdowns. What can be done? A mind healer?"_

_Again Gellert replied with a broken rasp, what passed for a laugh. "You cannot possibly make me believe you would let another witch or wizard blithely walk about your mind, now of all times?" Predictably, Albus paled and looked to his hands. "I thought not. No, Albus. You must fix this yourself."_

_Shaking his head slowly, Albus favored his one-time greatest friend and enemy sadly. "How can I? It... it would be like breaking one's own Obliviation. Impossible, unless you know what to look for."_

_Snorting, Gellert relaxed and lay, facing away from the most powerful wizard in the world. "But you do know what to look for. Figure it out, Albus. I'm nothing to you now, but a specter you've fixated on to justify your own life. Your magic fulfilled your wish: letting you understand me better, how the one you loved turned so horribly. It started twisting your mind into the semblance of what you believed me to be, and all the while you blithely went along with it._

_"I can't save you this time Albus. I tried once, before we parted," snorting, the bundle of bones and skin pulled the threadbare blanket up around it's shoulders. "Go away, Albus. Leave an old man to his fate."_

Dumbledore shook the memory free. Kept it but pushed it away for the moment. Nearly a year he'd spent reading, studying muggle psychology, as Gellert had called it, and the things he'd learned slapped a wearying hand across his mind.

It was, after all, not every day you realize that your own magic had been sabotaging your personality, for decades. "Indeed. Be careful what you wish for," he mumbled for likely the hundredth time, tossing another of Gellert's journals into the flames before him. He had a muggle lifetime of reparations to make. Literally thousands of misdeeds, evils and hardships to set right... and he was far too old to do so. Dumbledore knew that he would not manage it, not within his lifetime, and likely not for decades after would the real weight of what he'd done spin down to allow those he'd placed upon his web to break free fully.

First though... Albus strengthened his Occlumency, reinforcing the ideal of his own, younger self in his mind. A self untainted by his magic's own attempts to reshape his mind into a twisted image of Gellert's. How better to understand the nearly life-long fixation he had? Cursing again his weakness, Dumbledore focused his aching mind to the task of unraveling a vast tapestry of manipulation and intrigue.

He would begin with Harry Potter.

',',',',',','

Days of disillusionment, lurking about the Dursley home and watching, horrified at what he'd done had placed Albus at the tender mercies of Madam Pomfrey. He could not believe the tortures the muggles inflicted on the boy, and yet he could not trust himself to do anything. Doubt plagued him, wracked his mind as again and again he was haunted by the recent revelations. Fall's chill did little to help, as broken of mind and spirit, Dumbledore sank into a self-imposed exile within his own office. The school ran itself haltingly under McGonagall's care, yet for those few weeks, it seemed the very heart of the school was aching.

Through that time, Dumbledore let his mind heal, knowing he had to do something, but fearing his actions would be more damaging than helpful. Would he simply make it worse? Would bringing the boy back into the world of magic now, unravel him at the seams? It was a week before the physical reactions to his mistakes passed, and he could again attend his duties as Headmaster, but something was lost, something vital in the man.

Dumbledore was still mightily powerful, as he casually did magics that no other had been reported in recent history of achieving. Yet, despite it he seemed to grow increasingly eccentric. His habits became odd and affected by strange whimsy. Within his mind, Dumbledore was focused, working desperately to maintain himself, as fragments of his mind separated and tried to cope on their own. Masking his ailment with Occlumency, he determined a number of things must be done...

His accounting of the Boy-Who-Lived and his life was made to his trusted circle, people he knew could withstand and persevere. People he knew would see the need to undo his mistakes for, at least in this case, a more vital cause. Snape, his most trusted and capable ally and Minerva, long time friend and his own voice of reason. Between them, he began to piece together his mind, considerable amounts of magic going into the process of healing him, a process that would take years to complete. They also stood in judgment of his acts, and helped him see the true wrongs in what was happening.

The three also saw that he has empowered Tom Riddle in his quest for immortality, locking him into the Prophecy and therefore guaranteeing young Harry's fate. Vowing on his magic to make some difference, a positive one, in Harry's life, it would not be till Halloween before he would find that magic itself would balance that debt...

',',',',',','

Harry lived, and grew and didn't know anything beyond his small, hateful world and his smaller cupboard. Despite his own treatment at the hands of relatives who only cared for him because to do otherwise would result in punishments, Harry was a remarkably calm, centered youth. Like an animal, Harry had learned early what actions would earn him punishments and pain, and so he became skilled in watching, waiting and reading the people whose home he shared. Like a vastly complex game of tag and hide and seek, he lived his young life.

His birthdays passed unknown, as he watched the people who were his family shower their cruel, stupid child with love and stifling affection. Though he didn't want to be treated like Dudley, there was a void there. A lack he knew but didn't know the name of.

Harry did not understand. He saw other children, how their kin treated them. He saw other adults, and how they treated children. Out in that world, he was faced with a problem in his thinking.

Inside his home, things were much different than outside. Outside his family tried, and failed often, to act 'normal', which was a silly notion as all their posing and posturing Harry knew only made them more the laughingstock. Still, it made him wonder... if inside those homes were things so different than his own? Did other families treat children like him? Was this normal?

Time told, and as he grew, those thoughts became the fundamental ideals Harry built his life on. Questioning everything, seeing shadows in the noontime sun. Distrusting simple notions and watching for people to shed their masks, become the nightmare underneath. Yet, despite this dreary, hopeless view, where he should have had a fundamental lack, where compassion and love and caring normally fell, he did not though.

The reason for this flew into his face one day while tending his aunt's garden...

Harry's trowel fell to the side as he fell back with a muffled yell, thinking that Dudley had managed to sneak around the yard and hit him with something. Reaching up he stopped as a tiny, screechy voice chattered away breathlessly.

Instead of pulling whatever clung to his face off, Harry lay and listened, as the pressure on his nose and temples resolved to his shock to be a tiny, strange little creature. It was the source of the... babbling.

"Um, excuse-"

With a screech the little figure dashed back, a flutter of iridescent wings keeping it aloft. Harry saw it now, distant enough to focus on... and his bemusement only increased. What hovered before him, drifting on little currents of air, was what could only be a fairy. What confused him was the way it held down it's odd little garment, knees bent and staring at him murderously. Unsure what he'd done – since he was honestly the one who got knocked off his arse by the little, er – Harry just tilted his head and blinked at the glaring thing.

Shortly, it seemed to collect itself and drifted forward again – hand pinning the hem of it's brief garment down. "Ixipti." It said in a reedy little voice before rambled off again, apparently content that it's one... word, was understood.

Looking around to make sure no one else was watching, Harry leaned forward, startling the little thing into silence and protecting it's hemline again. "Ixipti?"

Blinking at him, the little form nodded slightly, pointing to it's nose. "Ixipti." Pointing at him, it said something, a sting of words that left it looking a little awed. Apparently size had some factor in the length of one's name, he mused. Leaning back as to not blast the little fairy with his breath in speaking, Harry pointed his finger in a similar fashion, and said simply, "Harry."

The fairy was so confused it fluttered to the nearby grass. Blinking up at Harry, the little thing considered him a moment before it's eyes went huge and it literally exploded into little white motes.

Harry was so surprised he jumped up and yelped, cringing and peering about to make sure no one saw. Going back to his gardening, Harry's thoughts wandered to the little thing, and something occurred to him.

The fairy was real.

Real fairies... well _weren't_.

Closing his eyes and rubbing at the bridge of his nose, the young boy returned to his work, knowing that no excuse at all other than falling over dead would help him if his tasks weren't done. Honestly he doubted even that would help.

It was late that night when Harry, locked back in his cupboard, allowed himself to think of the tiny visitor again. Though he'd seen it clearly, his memory was fuzzing about the edges, and each time it seemed as if a detail was lost, a clear ideal hazed. Shaking his head hard, he concentrated and tried to call back to mind the tiny fairy, idly murmuring it's name into the dark.

With a faint hiss-pop, Ixipti appeared in front of him, looking as surprised as he did. Scuttling back against the wall he stared, as the faintly luminous fairy blinked back at him. Hesitantly, he pointed, and in a small voice asked, "Ixipti?"

The fairy nodded, then after a moment's though zipped over to him and landed on his outstretched knee. "Ixipti," it said again simply, then poked his knee, rattling off some long series of words, ending with a slight pause and shrug before adding, "'Arry."

"I wish I could understand what you're saying."

"Aye..." tilting it's head, the little figure blinked eyes that he realized now were a uniform deep blue. "Aie? I?" Tasting the words, the fairy rocked back and forth on it's heels, occasionally bouncing up into the air with a flutter of gossamer wing. "Aie? _bixtl_..." wrinkling it's nose, the thing seemed to frown. "Aye weesh aie cooth..."

"You can't understand me, can you?"

Ixipti looked up at him and grinned, making motions for him to continue. Harry did so, three times and in watching the little figure, could see it was indeed a she, as she mouthed his words and stared at him intently. Prompted again and not knowing what else to do, Harry recalled his first year's reading lesson, mumbling it quietly to his off companion, as she mimicked him, speaking the words clumsily back but without understanding.

It was about an hour later that he realized she was simply repeating his words, and not really getting any meaning behind them. "This is silly," he murmured and leaned back, running a hand over his eyes.

A very slight weight on his shoulder stole his attention, but a single word riveted it, "Why?"

Harry looked to Ixipti incredulously. "You do understand?"

With another squawk of indignation, the fairy rocketed off his shoulder and pulled it's hem down furiously. With a mild blush Harry realized the reason for this – his breath was strong enough to upset her brief clothing, at close range. The day's earlier antics suddenly made sense and he smiled, ruining the apology but he voiced it regardless, "Sorry," he said quietly.

Ixipti cocked her head to the side and seemed to grin. "I ok."

"I am ok," her said, correcting her.

"Aye yam oh kay," the fairy sing-songed back, and for the first time in many years, Harry laughed.

He'd made a friend.

',',',',',','

Spring progressed to summer, and though little honestly changed in the Dursley home, much changed for Harry Potter. His single curious visitor had become many, and though he'd initially panicked and worried that the Dursleys would either harm them or him, it was a hollow concern. Ixipti had flown right into Dudley's face one day and blown the round little boy a mighty raspberry, to which he simply blinked and shooed at the air, as if dismissing a gnat.

The fact that no one else could see the fairies heartened him a bit, letting him relax his crushing paranoia at losing them, but also distressed him. Was he mad? Was this some proof of the freakishness his relatives were always crowing about?

Still, things were moving faster, it seemed. Days passed with less notice, his attention on his friends, a guilty pleasure he needed, and would not give up easily. They came to him when he was sad, or hurting from some punishment, and comforted him. He wanted to do something for them, but when he tried to ask Ixipti what he could do, she just asked for more stories.

This always made him curious. When he tried to tell them a story he'd read in school, they seemed to get disappointed, dimming. Ixipti explained, they wanted his stories. New stories. Realizing they wanted something he came up with, he tried. Often, they involved things from his life, made fairytale but sometimes they were inspired by his flitting friends. This always seemed to make them brighten with happiness.

Strange things became more commonplace, and he wanted to blame, or see that it was the fairy's work, but in truth he couldn't be angry with them. Somewhere deep inside he knew it was him, his own freakishness showing. For all their cursing it though, he was not apologetic. No, he was happy for it. For often, it kept him safe.

Sometimes, it was small things, sometimes larger. Almost always they happened around his hated relatives, though. Dudley would trip when he was chasing Harry, over empty air. Vernon would seem to choke on a bit of food while screaming at him, or grow pale and dizzy suddenly in his rage. Petunia's frypan would slip free of her hands, where she swung it at him and go spinning into her fine china. Always these things would pass through his mind, before they happened and he began to see... something. A connection. Still, the feel of it, that peculiar knowing that he could do something, that his whim would happen only occurred rarely. He was not always so lucky as to escape their wrath, and sometimes he knew avoiding it would only bring worse things...

Speaking with Ixipti was easier, and she could answer and reply in simple sentences. There was a point where between the little talks, when he grew tired of repeating things that she would huddle and idle with the other, more shy faeries and chatter. They're rate of speech boggled Harry, as he knew, somewhere in the rush of sounds were English words. Ixipti was teaching the others.

Many children Harry knew, Dudley being one, were frightened of the dark. He let his mind muse on this, as dark swept up and around the door's frame. While night wore on, Harry didn't feel uncomfortable in the dark, in fact in some ways he relished it. Partly because the small babbling things flitting about in his cupboard were lightly luminous in a way, but also because there was a comfort to it. He knew what was in the dark.

Since his earliest memories, he'd been in this cupboard. All the years he'd been here, there was never anything more frightening inside the dark, than out in the light. Spiders and strange scuttling things would drive some to creeping terrors, but to him they were sole distractions. He would watch a spider weave it's web over hours while locked into the dark space, wondering at it's instinct and skill. Listen as termites and such things ate and worked in the old, dank wood. Press his ear to the floor to listen for strange things, imagining their lives.

Small crawling things didn't worry him. He'd been a baby, defenseless and weak yet they did nothing to him. Why would they start now? He was careful of them, and they left him be.

Life went on, and school time and the talk of other children put another rift, added another dimension to his oddness. Obviously his strange peace with 'dirty' things set him apart, which again he took as his Uncle's hated freakishness again.

Was it so odd to be... accepting? Did people, children even more, have to be so pointlessly cruel?

That question seemed to find a resounding answer, as fall approached. He'd remember this day for the rest of his life, as a sort of turning point. Remember the day he'd seen a very pretty garden spider, quietly sitting in her web and waiting, till a wretched little boy took a stone and struck her from it with a vicious throw.

Harry had stood from where he sat, horrified at knowing the delicate weaver was dead. In a moment his horror had flashed into cool hate and he turned on the boy, muttering something even now he couldn't remember. Bound up in those half-words were all the pain and unhappiness of his life, sitting in the dark unwanted, seeing comfort only in things others shunned, and with it was the knowing he'd become familiar with. _Make him hurt_, it whispered to him, and he responded with a resounding _Yes!_ It resembled Ixipti's speech – rapid, full of meaning but little actual word.

That day he understood two things, which made a difference for the rest of his youth, and later his life.

The first, was that Ixipti's speech wasn't words, so much as feelings, impression and ideas. A language of emotion and impression. That was why it was so hard for her to understand him. Happily she was making headway to learning his way, so he didn't have to learn hers. Harry didn't think he was capable of really learning them, but that he'd used her speech connected some dots in his mind. Why did the fairies cluster about him so? Why did they keep him company? Maybe there was some connection...

The second... he could _do_ things, on his own, rather than just react. Had Harry not befriended, and had what he knew were fairies all around him for months, he'd wonder at what he was thinking. After spitting those rapid, emotion-laden words at the stupid boy, the child ran, eyes going wide in terror. Harry didn't know what he had said, knew less what the other had heard – and cared not at all. The other boys who had come with the now fleeing boy looked at Harry, as if deciding if he were worth bothering, but a flick of the eye to either one sent them scuttling off too. Later, what it all meant would be clear.

As if summoned, Ixipti lighted on his shoulder after, trilling a little sound that made him relax. He didn't try to find the broken weaver. He knew, somewhere deep inside he'd not find her.

An hour, maybe a little more passed and Harry found himself in the lunch commons. It was a startlingly pretty room considering the rest of the dreary school, but he honestly blamed the places missionary origins. The commons had one very interesting feature, left over from the school's history as a chapel. The stairwell windows.

Along the riser stair that led from the ground floor up to the lunch commons, there was a great window, spanning two floors. In truth is a series of windows, not the usual stained glass that one would expect in a mission or church, but simple, primitive glass. Cloudy, unpolished. Silver and steel dividers in a random pattern gave it support, and a sense of age. It gave the whole area a smoky light that cracked and flowed with the clouds and moving sun. It was one of Harry's favorite things about school, that great wall of light, that obscured the world beyond into meaningless shapes. Today he was sitting near them, off to the left somewhat. Something, maybe Ixipti, had whispered for him to be here, as opposed to anywhere else.

It was during lunch the boy he'd 'spoken' too had jumped up, a strangled cry tearing out of his mouth. Harry and Ixipti sat, her with a tiny crumb of bread that in her hands look like half a loaf, he with a spoon halfway to his mouth as the boy looked around, eyes rolling and whites all around as they ranged over the room.

They fixed on the stairwell window, and he stumbled into a sprinting run.

Everyone in the room stayed riveted, as the screeching boy tore past tables, members of the staff standing slowly, unsure what the sometimes troublesome boy was about. Only as his path closed on the riser, and he showed no sign of stopping, did a few start to call for him to stop.

Harry just watched, unable to move. Unwilling to blink, as the boy passed, his eyes snapped to Harry's and he saw the tendrils of lazy dark flowing over the whites, snapping at the middles of his eye. And then he had lunged up, a foot on the railing, and with a heave he flew like a stone.

The windows caught and held him in the center, his leap from the upper story propelling him to it's center The steel and metal web was unwilling to simply let him pass. All around the place he was held, the cracks of his impact spread along the old glass, and Harry laughed once, quietly, before turning to his soup. The image of him trapped in an unyielding web of glass and steel was too amusing.

Something cool and dark in him was satisfied, and it stilled any worry, or anxiety he had over the boy's injury. He'd callously destroyed something beautiful for no reason, after all. This one had no appreciation inside him. No spark...

A whimper from those windows snapped him out of his musing and he paled. What was he thinking...

Appetite gone, Harry pushed from between the growing crowd and rushed from the room, Ixipti clinging to his collar as he ran. As he rushed past Dudley, he caught an ugly gleam in the fat, piggish boy's beady eyes. With a sinking feeling he knew that this was only the beginning of the bad times.

',',',',',','

Bad times they were. After hearing Dudley's embellished tale, undeniably truthful really, Harry's aunt and uncle decided it was time to start punishing in earnest the boy they knew one day would turn out just as bad as... _them_. Unless they put a stop to it.

Vernon knew something of _them_, the people Petunia's sister had run off to join. Strange, unnatural, and to a "T" utterly incomprehensible. People who wore great billowing robes in broad daylight. Waving little sticks around. Saying the most outlandish things as if they were speaking on the weather. He also knew something about James Potter that utterly rankled the fat, overbearing man.

James Potter had _power_. Not that... freakishness, no. Somehow, probably through some fancy words or a wave of a stick he had managed to secure himself money. Lots of money... and influence. Vernon spent his days watching people, scraping and simpering to his superiors, screaming in base incoherence at his lessers, and from years of his corporate climb knew with some certainty the bearing of people who had such power. It was that power Vernon desired, craved and felt with absolute surety he deserved.

And yet, James Potter, a man most unnatural, had it. Vernon Dursley, did not.

Now though, he had Potter's brat, and one thing he'd learned in many years of bowing and scraping and fetching papers was that taking hold of an opportunity was the best way to seize fate. That wealth the Potter freak had didn't simply evaporate. Somehow, he could use his possession of the boy to get his hands on it.

Never once did Dursley think that wizarding money, wizarding power to be so different than what he thought it to be, that he simply would have no idea how to deal with it. Money was money – wizards must have a way. Otherwise their kind couldn't skulk in the shadows and make the world such an unnerving place. To walk down the street and see it, see those... _freaks_, going about their business, sent him into shaking chills.

He kept the Potter brat because one day, he'd unlock how to get his hands on the little waste's money. Then, he'd rid his family of the wretched little freak-in-the-making, before he could grow into his father's shoes.

Unlike Vernon, Petunia didn't want Harry for the money he represented, rather she didn't want him at all. What she wanted, was the protection the boy carried with him, the tacit assurance that no harm would ever befall her family, as long as he could call the place home. With that in place, it was simply a matter of feeding and watering the distasteful little vermin, the result of her sister's betrayal.

Oh yes, Lily had been the cause of all her own pain, Petunia reasoned, quite sure. Her parents – Lily's parents, had been overjoyed when news came that the pretty, bright and utterly full of herself daughter was capable of something so extraordinary. In a year, she'd get a letter too... and with her sister she'd go off and prove that she was extraordinary too. She'd be able to recoup the fading attention and lack of support she saw, as her parent's focus rested so strongly on their little overachiever witch.

The letter never came. Petunia watched, as year after year her sister became more and more... distant. Freakish. She's have the most horrible things in her pockets and trunk after those years, talk about the most vile things. Unnatural things. She even kept a wretched owl in her room – for the love of God it vomited rat bones! What happened to her sister?

Of course her parents were enamored with Lily's ability. Nevermind that Petunia had caught the eye of a rather good man, an up-and-comer in a solid business that was respectable. Certainly not as pointless and uncouth as simply magicking up wealth, or things, or food and comforts.

Jealousy ruled Petunia, from her eleventh year onward. Hearing Dudley's words, she decided, looking to Vernon with a small nod, that no spawn of her traitorous sister would ever make her Dudley feel how she did.

If the boy insisted on playing at magic, then they'd beat that idea from his thick little head.

Not as complex as his parents, Dudley simply hated Harry for being there... it was a simple thing really. His parents showered the boy with praise and attention, yet always they were watching Harry, like he would suddenly do something, say or catch some ideal. Oh, they lavished him – and he deserved it! He was _their_ only boy.

Yet he wasn't _the_ only boy.

Harry took time, attention, away from him. It wasn't right. They were his parent's, what call did Harry have to get scolded, yelled at? They were his. Time spent on him took away the time they could be praising, or better yet, being talked into more things, more privileges.

Dudley simply hated him for being. Which is why, before even his parents had decided to start enforcing their ideals, Dudley had been for quite a long time.

Thus began Harry's first solid week, locked in his cupboard without food or facilities, and his departure from the world of men. The Dursleys, whom he thought had no other masks, turned out to have one to remove still, revealing the darker things beneath.

',',',',',','


	4. The Ruse & The Revel

**The Ruse & The Revel**

_"People always tell me I have my mother's eyes. If that were the truth, they'd be all ice and shadow." -Harry Potter_

Harry wouldn't know it, but on the year of his eighth birthday, much would change for him. This would be a very good thing, as much of his time since that day years ago with the boy and the windows had been spent in a waking nightmare directed by his cruel and sometimes dangerous relatives.

The Fey, as they corrected his address of them, had grown with him. He wondered at that, as they never seemed to eat, or eat much, but then again, they were _Fey_. Harry would laugh a little to himself when he tried to assign some logic to them, always coming back to the point he was trying to make little flying magical things that he had little understanding of logical.

One thing that bothered him just a little was _how_ his Fey had grown. Ixipti had lost her pale and sunny hue and darkened, a blueish tint about her. Like the others, this seemed to be a theme of sorts, all of them taking a somewhat twilight cast to their colors, if not their ways about him. To Harry they were always playful, always chattering in their half-meaning speech with smiles and sometimes knowing grins. Where once they had seemed like prisms floating in his dark cupboard, now they resembled moonlight and fireflies.

When asked, Ixipti or the others seemed confused, shrugging. The best answer Harry got from her was one day, after a particularly gruesome story in which some great monster came and rescued a young boy from evil boar-people. "We are. Shaped in stories, imaginings. We are, and become what we are, and still are, so it is ok. Being is being," then shrugging, she'd demanded another story for payment for thinking so hard. Harry, laughing, happily told another quickly imagined tale.

He'd noticed a certain other change that year in them as well. Less and less they wandered into the sun and the grass, at least during the day. Often, Ixipti was to be found napping in his bird's nest of hair, or curled up in his collar, until twilight came. Once the sun was falling his friends would wake and come about, frolicking in the half light and shadows, their ghost-light bodies painting glowing trails across the darkened sky. He didn't mind this at all, as now they were awake and active more with him at night, when he could truly be alone with them, locked away in his own little place.

He no longer envied Dudley his room. Too many windows. Even in the day, here in his cupboard, the Fey would come thanks to it's darkness.

',',',',',','

It was a sad but recent fact that his birthday had passed in July. Sad because he only found out about it after the fact, and recent for that very reason. Yet, it was Halloween that would become a marked event on his calendar for years to come, more so even than his often forgotten birthday.

Halloween in Surrey was a simple, childlike thing. There was little of the adult in the tradition, as most of it centered on children roaming about for candy, small parties, and the occasional haunted house. At schools, students would be allowed to dress up if the day fell on a school day rather than on the weekend. He of course didn't have a costume, but the Fey would not seem to let him be, clustering about him and clinging. He'd asked Ixi what she was about, getting a tongue stuck out at him for his shortening of her name. Still, the little fluttering wings wouldn't cease and he let it go.

Unlike other years, where his lack of costume caused him to stand out and be mocked or made fun of, this year people simply looked through, or past him. He felt invisible, and it was... liberating. Brilliant really. Ixi grinned when he turned to her, glinting like a little star on his collar. Standing up in the middle of a class, he went unnoticed.

Laughing to himself, Harry left the room and passed down into the courtyard, no one bothering to stop him, or sparing him a second glance.

He never had the chance to simply enjoy the yard, with its swings and toys. Today he spent time on everything, spinning, swinging, laughing and playing to his heart's content with his tiny friends.

When the sun had started to fall though, evening coming soon, they did something odd. Often, this was when his friends would wake, growing more energetic and actually appearing. Instead all but Ixi left, and even she seemed to be nervous. Harry could feel it too. Something in the air felt heavy, full of purpose. Feeling an urge, he crossed the street across from the school, sitting in the little park there, leaning against an old elder tree. It was as he settled, getting comfortable that the noise began.

It was a strange thing at first, a collection of odd thumps and screams, a rattling of wood and wheels that grew louder and closer as he listened. It was so wholly out of place at the Surrey school that Harry simply sat and waited, curiosity piqued as the cacophony grew and swelled. Ixipti cowered under his collar, peering out with her twilight eyes before huddling back in it's shadow, as the noise continued to grow.

A carriage, black as rot and slickly glinting careened down the lane, pulling a corner on two wheels and with a screaming of the horses that drew it. The horses themselves were madly stamping at the ground in their drawing of the coach, heads down and ears back, muscles cording and bulging in time with the deafening pounding of horseshoes on pavement, each powerful stride striking sparks from the shoes and pavement. Harry sat transfixed as it rounded the corner, slowing, the horse's shoes no longer striking sparks from the ground as they pummeled it, yet the impacts still ringing around and echoing fit to wake the dead.

With a creaking groan it halted, the huge gray horses that pulled it settling into an eerie calm, as it settled finally. Above and sitting on the bench atop the coach, Harry saw a man... swallowing suddenly he realized he had to simply assume it was a man, for the figure had no head. He was beginning to think that it was a good idea to run away when the door facing him banged open, a flurry of white bursting free and spinning off into the wind.

Out of the carriage stepped a woman. Harry's thoughts of fear and escape evaporated, when he saw her, something familiar itching at his mind in her appearance. She seemed carved of glass, so pale her skin almost looked blue, while the white of her hair fell across and atop a dress of deep navy. The dress itself was simple, cut low, and faded to a simple white when it reached the train, which seemed to float behind her, spreading in a pool as she walked... toward him.

Ixi shivered, and Harry reached up to lightly run a finger along the collar she hid beneath. The woman saw this and a corner of her mouth curved up. Harry's eyes moved again to the train that followed the dress, spreading out like water and with a start realized Fey carried it.

Bemused, Harry only had a moment to note that the woman stopped and sat down beside him, the train of her gown settling with a gentle hiss to the dry leaves that autumn had left them with. Close now, Harry could see that like Ixipti, the woman's eyes were uniform and depthless, rather than blue though, this woman's was black. Swallowing again, Harry simply stared.

"Good evening," she whispered, snapping him out of his stare and startling him badly.

With a stutter, he replied, "G-Good evening, Ma'am." The lady tilted her head, regarding him steadily. After looking back over, half afraid and half curious, he noted she was actually rather short, and slight of frame. Feeling she was waiting on something, he bobbed his head once, and figured an introduction was in order, "My name is Harry."

The lady smiled, her faintly blue lips curling up slightly. "Yes, of course you are," she said quietly, barely over a whisper yet Harry had no problems making out the words. Ill at ease, he looked back out at the coach, only to stare, eyes going wide. The coach's driver sat stock-still, hands about the reins and idle. He would find this less frightening had the man a head, the woman's appearance distracting him from that terrible fact before. Now with his view unobstructed, it seemed to reclaim his mind. "Harry?"

Cool fingers turned his head back to face the woman, resting against his chin. "Harry?"

Jolting slightly, he drew back, terrified but not sure of what. It really wasn't so much why, as which, as both the small, strange woman and her coachman simply terrified him. With a sigh, the woman looked down to her hands which were in her lap now, her palms facing the sky. "Harry, you need not fear me."

"But," looking between the man, who seemed to have turned faintly to face them, and the horses... only now did he note that the pair were so still because they didn't _breathe_, and then the lady herself, who seemed made of snow and ice... "What is going on?"

"It is Halloween, Harry," she replied, smiling slightly. "And I am here to see how you have been doing."

Confused, because a part of him felt he knew this woman, and another wanted him to flee, Harry settled for staring at her. "I'm sorry. I don't remember you, how do you know me?" At his words, something crossed over the woman's face, an expression he'd recognize anywhere, as he'd worn it for a very long time. "I didn't mean to make you sad-"

"Please, Harry, relax," she whispered, and held up a hand. "I have not been to see you, myself, in a very long time. I rely on little ones, like your friend Ixipti to tell me how you are." At the mention of her name, Ixi peered out and squeaked, seeing the lady so close by. With a small gesture, a wave of fingers, the little Fey crawled out and fluttered over, resting in the air before the woman at Harry's side. "She is a very loyal little one."

Harry simply nodded, worried for the tiny Fey. Something in this woman's manner spoke of danger, he felt it now. She could be dangerous, but he was unsure if today that was her goal. Apparently Ixipti felt the same, as the little Fey seemed to tremble where she hovered. What boggled Harry more than either of those facts though, was the fact the woman knew, could see, and from what she said, talked to not only Ixipti but other Fey that were around him. That on it's own was enough to prompt his question and for the time being, to set aside his fear, "Who are you?"

The lady favored him with a smile, "Brave for one so young," she whispered, before turning to face him fully. "You would not remember me, but due to things that happened while I was a very brief associate of your mother's, you could call me your... godmother."

"What's a godmother?"

She hummed a moment, reaching out and letting Ixipti land on her outstretched hand. "A godparent is someone who is responsible for your well being, were something to happen to your parents. Your mother asked that you be taken care of, and I took up that role.

"Though, I am afraid I have had to let the little ones be there for you, rather than myself for some time. For that I am sorry."

Harry digested this, and realized that in a way, she did seem similar to Ixipti, but at the same time was very different. It was more than just size, it had more to do with feel. Then, the meaning behind her words settled on Harry, and he frowned. "Why... why have I been at the Dursleys, if you were my godmother then? And you sent Ixipti?"

Nodding, she looked at the little Fey with a small smile. "Yes. She will be rewarded well for her work. She kept you company? Helped you stay happy and well?" Harry nodded, still confused but pushing forward. He wanted some answers, but was wary... this woman was so strange. "As for why... Harry, I was not the one to leave you with them. You were taken away from your home, by another."

At this, Harry stood up and began pacing. He had to – there was too much energy in him to simply sit, the questions darting through his mind driving him before them. He didn't have to live with those horrible people... were there better ones? There had to be! There had to be someone that would actually treat him like... like a person who deserved to live, to have some kind of happiness. "Wait," hope lit up his face, as Harry turned back to her, "are you taking me away from them?"

The woman's expression, countering Harry's fell as sharply. "I'm sorry Harry, I cannot. Not yet."

"Why," the young boy replied simply, sitting back down against the tree.

"My home... is not a place for small children," she explained, sighing after a moment. "And to be honest, you do not know me well, Harry. Would you perhaps jump from a bad situation to a worse one?"

A chill crept up his back at that, and he shook his head. "I suppose not. But you can't be worse than the Dursleys..."

The lady only smiled, a private and somewhat disconcerting smile. "I will say that some day I'd like to have you come see my home, but it will need to be once you've grown a bit. It's a hard place for small children to be. First though... we should get to know one another. Wouldn't that be a good start?" Blinking, Harry nodded, realizing she had yet to give him a name. As if sensing his question, she continued, "My name is Maeve, and I... well I suppose Fey are part of my life. In a way I passed that on to you, when I became your godmother."

Harry perked back up at this, watching how Ixipti sat, looking cowed on the woman's palm. It reminded him of her words so recent, that perhaps she was worse than the Dursleys... "So, all the things with the Fey are because of you?"

"To a degree, though your own treatment of them is reason enough for them to be loyal, and enamored to you. I suppose I simply opened the door." Smiling down at the tiny Fey in her hand, Maeve murmured a short phrase in what Harry had come to recognize as Ixi's native tongue. With a jolt the little Fey bounced up, staring at the woman, then without preamble she raced over to Harry and nested in his hair, muttering to herself thoughtfully.

"What did you tell her?"

Maeve shrugged, noncommittal, "A possible future. Tonight will be the telling point."

Sighing, Harry was becoming weary of her word games, "What is tonight?"

"Halloween of course. It's a holiday, one meant to be enjoyed, where people go out and celebrate the turning of the veil from summer to winter," pausing, she seemed to grow thoughtful a moment. "It's the day my... family, yes. That is a good way to think of it, that my family comes back and spends time here."

Harry had trouble masking his sadness, knowing that he'd simply be locked away in his cupboard for the night again, as Dudley was out gathering candy and treats. Maeve, seeming to read his thoughts, laid a cool hand on his shoulder. "You should go out tonight. I think something very special will come of you taking the time to celebrate it."

Worrying at his lip, Harry shook his head, "I can't. They won't let me, and besides I don't have a costume."

"Costume?" Maeve laughed, a sound that made Harry shiver but it wasn't wholly unpleasant. "You need no costume, young one. They are for those who need to pretend..." Then, to his discomfort, Maeve tilted his chin up and stared into his eyes intently, their black, featureless depths boring into him. "I do not need to. Do you need to pretend, Harry?"

Images flooded his mind, of the odd things that happened during his life. Unnatural things. Freakish things, as he'd come to think of them. It occurred to him... that she was similar, in some way. She had her own strangeness, and it made him comfortable. His anxiety about her wasn't for his own sake, but really just habit. Matter of course, drilled into him by his relatives. Swallowing, he relaxed, watching as she smiled faintly. "No. No I don't need to pretend."

Satisfied, she leaned forward and kissed him, gently on the cheek. "My smart boy. I think you will enjoy this holiday. Remember... without risk, life is empty."

"Is it really a holiday? My teachers keep telling us it's just a holdover, a tradition rather than a holiday in truth."

Maeve snorted, laughing once in disdain. "Harry, for us, my family, tonight is the most holy of days. For what me and mine consider holy, it is most certainly that kind of day." Brightening, she straitened, the irritation at his teachers falling off her like shaken water. "It is also an important day for you, for other than Halloween, it is your birthday. I came today to wish you a happy holiday and birthday, more than anything."

"But," mouth working for a moment, Harry's brow furrowed, "my birthday was in July. The end of July."

Maeve smiled, the kind of smile you wear when something is a secret, "In a way, yes. In a way, no. Would it be so odd to have two birthdays?"

Harry considered this a moment, but nodded, "I don't see how. You're only born once, after all."

"For most this is true," she commiserated, but continued, "For you however, this holiday is also a birthday.

"And to prove it, I have a gift," she said, not giving Harry a moment to argue the point. Cupping her hands, the strange woman hummed a little tune, before opening them again and presenting him with a small, blue stone, maybe the size of a small coin. It was oblong, with a blackened metal chain running through it's upper side. Etched and filled in black as well on the front, was a slant-lined capital "H".

Harry hesitantly took the pretty trinket, smiling just slightly as he ran his thumb over the cool stone. "It's very pretty."

"I made it just for you," Maeve said, smiling again. "I would make sure you knew that some remember you, on this important day," she said, more quietly. Harry's eyes went to her face then, as her tone had grown soft, and her next words shook him deeply, unable to be missed, "For to me, you are very important."

Harry had never heard anyone say something like that before, and even though he knew the Fey that kept him company liked him, this was wholly different. He was a burden to the Dursleys, an anomaly to the school, a no one to friends for he had none, and though he cared about the Fey... what he was to them was hard to say, for none had. Not really thinking, or caring, he swept forward and embraced Maeve, sniffling quietly.

Startled by the sudden action and contact, the Winter Queen again recalled the first day she'd seen Harry... her plots for the boy who cheated fate with her help. Her grand ideas. Her plans. Then she considered this young boy, clinging to her as if he had no one else, unknowing of what she truly was – and uncaring. Maeve considered a moment before realizing he truly didn't have anyone else. No Court held his esteem, no fellows shared his goals. He would be alone were it not for the Fey.

She knew of the old weaver's plans for him, as well as his failing mind. Such a person would be far too dangerous to leave in control of her changeling... _her_ Harry. Thoughts raced through her mind, as unfamiliar ideals and urges swept through her. Maeve had never considered herself even containing the possibility of maternal instinct, yet here, this simple half-wizard child made her want to murmur and whisper comfort to him. She, Lady Winter, Queen of the Unseelie, the unclean Fey. Comforting a child. Were it not for the impulse shattering it's way through her mind, she would laugh out loud. Perhaps there was some truth in the murmuring in her court that this plan would be her undoing, for it was certainly changing her...

The crux. Change. Maeve's eyes narrowed. The Unseelie were the engines for change, and yet she resisted for so long... was she any different than those fat, complacent Fey that had not stood on their own for æons? Was her immovable rigidity as dangerous? Adapt or die, was the creed of the things that prey on the heart's darkness. She was no fool. Silently, she applauded Fate her ever-tangled weaving.

She knew that in a way, some of her own magic had nested in him, waiting still to come to the fore. Did that bond also share with her, human ideals, then? So many questions.

With a sense of shifting, as if the world itself she had seen so long turned minutely before her eyes, she knew it to be truth, but did not pull away. A memory, etched in her mind of a baby, smiling up at her onyx eyes while his tiny fingers pulled at her hair, tickling his arms returned to her. Oh yes, it had affected her, time away had dulled it, but now faced with the child it was achingly clear.

Reaching up hesitantly, Maeve laid her arms along the young boy's back, blinking furiously as her instincts warred with her mind. Perhaps it was not so wise to use the ruse of godmother to gain his trust... for now it seemed a fickle fate had sealed her words in truth. "Hush young one," she murmured, plans rewriting themselves in her mind, rising and being discarded, points pulled aside, details disassembled, reduced to parts. "It will be alright, I promise," she said quietly. Maeve had every intention of keeping that promise. New plans rose from the detritus of the old. Plans that settled a smile on her cold lips.

With a small shiver and sigh, Harry pulled back, his composure regained. Looking to Maeve, he saw an attentive, mischievous smile on her face, and a certain tension about her eyes. He never realized how much he used eyes to read people, and with hers there was simply no way. He wondered at why their color didn't bother him, but there was a familiarity, from Ixipti and also just a notion that he'd seen them before, watching over him that stilled that notion.

A small groan from Harry had him standing, as he caught sight of the fading light. The sun had fallen further, and he realized that it'd soon be time to head back home, back to the Dursleys. Harry looked down at the necklace he held with worry, knowing if any of them saw it, they'd either take or break it. Still, he wanted to wear it. It was his first real gift. Sensing his disquiet, Maeve closed his fingers over the stone, her own chill hands closing about his, "Like Ixipti, it would take someone very special to see this. Don't worry, Harry."

Nodding gratefully, he placed it around his neck, smiling at the light chill that settled against his chest. Despite the fall weather, it was comfortable. When he looked up though, he started badly.

Maeve and her coach were gone. Looking about frantically he scanned the nearby park but knew, were the carriage to have pulled off he would have heard it. More than that, her gown would be obvious to him, in this sparse area.

If it weren't for the cool weight of the stone about his neck on it's darkened chain, or the fitful sleeping of Ixipti in his hair, Harry would have thought it all just a dream.

',',',',',','

Harry's night went much how he'd thought. Dudley was quite happy with his costume, some television character Harry didn't know – not terribly surprising. Where before he'd held a kind of quiet envy for Dudley's thoughtless indulgence, tonight he simply smiled and finished his chores. As fast as he could, Harry hid in his cupboard – but not to sleep.

He needed to think. That entire evening things had been... speeding up. Harry felt his mind chattering at him, half-formed thoughts racing. Harry had been rebellious in his own ways for years, but there were things he didn't do. He didn't try to steal food after meals, he didn't purposefully make Dudley look to be the buffoon he was, and he didn't sneak out of the cupboard on 'big days'. Those, being holidays where Dudley was the star, and anything he did was likely taken as an attempt to breach all three of the other rules.

Tonight though, after thinking back over Maeve's words, he was considering doing just that. It didn't help that his companions, the little Fey were all moping about and hoping he'd join them. Some of the newer additions to his little cloud of friends had already gone out, proving in a way the woman's words. They treated it like a holiday, wanting to go out and play as much as any of the children.

So did Harry.

It was with that thought that door to his cupboard seemed to shudder and pop loose, the locks rebounding back in their casements with a sound like a gunshot. Harry was momentarily stunned till his little entourage of Fey, in a rare show of exuberance, charged the door with Ixipti leading, shoving it open before returning to tug, push and pull him along with them. Not one to ignore a happy chance, Harry followed, dashing out of the house amid a cloud of thrilled voices.

Harry didn't bother with the trick or treating, as his Fey didn't stray far from him. The risk of them possibly being seen or hurt (if they could push a door tonight, he didn't want to consider an errant fly swatter or slap to one) kept him to watching the outlandishly costumed kids cavorting around, and the antics of the adults who went with them. Stealthily – as stealthily as a child with a cloud of Christmas lights orbiting him can – Harry sped up to the park, intent on using his time to enjoy the cool air there, like he had earlier that day at school.

When he arrived, he hesitated by the bordering bushes and trees. Harry had feared that he'd stumble on Dudley and his few friends, bullies all, but it wasn't them he found. Running about carousel, and occasionally hopping up to enjoy the spin, were a curious pair of children, not much taller than him. Both were dressed similarly, in rugged brown clothes that seemed of thick, heavy cloth. Their shirts were left untucked and flapped about, while pants were hemmed high, showing off what looked to be very large boots. Most curious Harry found though, were the faces... it seemed like both were his age by height, but there was an angularity to their faces that almost made them seem older. He pinned the reason down to a lack of baby fat. Their stark white hair didn't help the impression either. Once or twice as the light allowed he got a glimpse of their eyes, and was amazed to see they matched, each having irises the color of gold.

Kneeling down by a tree, he watched as the pair spun and played, making him again think of why he came out here. Harry worried that maybe they weren't... nice but then... why had he creeped out of his cupboard? Maybe since he didn't recognize them, they were new to the neighborhood and not 'in the know' like most everyone else his relatives had talked with. Maybe.

Knowing he'd talk himself out of stepping forward much faster than staying hidden, Harry steeled himself with a breath and walked out. The effect was immediate, when the two saw him, seeing them.

The carousel spun on behind them, as the two seemed to just go from laughing and pushing, running about the thing to standing, silent and stolid in front of it. The Fey, sensing his anxiety had flown up into the trees and into the bushes, muting their own light, all but Ixipti who sat on his shoulder like a single star. Harry, unused to such silences, waved and hazarded a small smile. Maeve's words earlier whispered through his mind, "_Without risk, life is empty_".

"Happy Halloween," he called suddenly, and walked forward, if somewhat hesitantly. The pair by the playground equipment stared at him a moment, before sharing a glance before mimicking his own actions. With a wave they came forward, and Harry got his first good look at the pair. He'd taken them for twins earlier, but up close it was obvious they shared family, but weren't. The girl, willowy and with still, staring eyes seemed to alternately consider him and Ixi, while the boy simply looked him over very seriously. Blushing under the scrutiny, Harry tried to smile but it came out more of a grimace. "Happy... holiday," he said lamely, nervousness stilling any other words he'd manage.

Any anxiety he'd already felt doubled when the boy reached up as if to touch Ixipti, and Harry instinctively turned, shielding her. What he didn't expect was the look of surprise that followed or his quick step back. "Rede, he sees us."

"Of course, it's hard to greet someone you can't see. And he sees her," the girl, still watching him, waved at the small Fey still riding his shoulder. Harry was too wary to look at Ixi, but judging from her light she wasn't worried. "Raith, behave. If he can see there's reason. Introductions."

Shaking himself, the boy favored Harry with a small smile. "Sorry, just surprised... um. I'm Raith, this is Rede," indicating the girl, who bobbed lightly at her name, Harry looked between the two.

Seeing they were expecting him to return the favor, Harry shot his hand forward, trying to mask his hesitation. "Sorry, hello. My name's Harry."

"Ixipti," the tiny light on his shoulder squeaked, making him turn to see her, sitting rather contently there. Blinking, Harry just sighed, causing her dragonfly wings to flutter.

"And this is Ixipti," he added after, unneeded. "You can see her?"

"You can see _us_?" Raith countered, still looking bemused. "Well, of course. We, um, Ixipti and my sister and I can see each other fine. What startled us, was that you could."

Harry, though not able to prove it, was rather bright. Not just from his studies, which he did quietly and fervently at school when he could, but also from surviving in as much peace and happiness as he could. It wasn't a huge leap in logic to realize what Raith had just said. "You're both Fey," he blurted out, slapping his hand over his mouth after.

Rede regarded him quietly, before nodding. "Not like Ixipti and the small ones. But yes, we're Fey of a kind," moving a step closer that her brother had countered in his jump back, she eyed him closely. "You weren't born Fey, yet you see and have the... company, of a pixie. Who are you?"

"I'm just Harry," the young man said blandly, shrugging. Still, the question wasn't rude, and did make sense. The day though had left him too many questions to simply let another collect though. "I don't know how, or why I see them – er, you. I've been able to for a while."

Raith began walking back to the swings, and Harry was glad of the distraction. For a time they all just sat and dangled, Raith taking to the air more as his face grew thoughtful. Rede, like Harry, simply sat and let the idle motion rule her. It was also Rede that broke the silence, "Harry, why are you out tonight? No costume? No pail or candy or parents?"

"Someone told me it would be worth the risk," he replied after a moment's thought. "I've never been out on a Halloween before. It's been fun."

"Never before," she murmured, shaking her head. Rede looked to be about to say something to Raith when during one of the steeper arcs, Harry's shirt billowed and a glint of blue winked out at her. Open mouthed, she and Raith watched as the boy, a simple human boy, played at the swing.

Harry noted their looks and skidded his feet into the turf to stop, "What's wrong?"

"Harry that pendant-"

Looking down, he noted that the blue stone he'd worn around his neck since that afternoon had come free and was sitting outside his shirt, and with a hiss hastily tucked it back inside. "Sorry, it was a gift..."

Rede and Raith shared a glance, both having seen easily enough what the stone was. It was Raith's voice that stilled Harry's hands from their fumbling, "We know her."

Harry's head shot up, a hint of hope in his eyes, "You do? Who is she? All I have is a name."

"What name, Harry?" Rede asked, but then, she knew the answer already. The stone practically sang to them, an item so intrinsically tied to their nature. The siblings realized now what it was, other than the boy's quiet, accepting nature that drew them to him. A power sink of the magnitude Harry idly wore would have any Fey practically begging just to be around him.

With a shrug, Harry kicked off and started straining for the sky again. "She said it was Maeve," he called down, missing the moment Raith fell out of his swing staring incredulous at his sister.

Maeve's declaration to take a changeling wasn't unknown, but the Court had thought... the two tried to do the math about years involved and the slip of time between the Middleworld and this one but nothing could compensate for Harry. Rede's eyes narrowed and a savage grin lit her face. Reaching out she pulled herself to a stop and laughed, "She pulled one over on them all," excited she looked to Harry, then back to Raith. When she didn't see the comprehension in his eyes, the Fey child swatted him with a hand. "Raith! The Revel!"

Though there was a certain kind of hierarchy in the Court, there were also those of lineage. Traditions may not be the backbone of the Unseelie, but there were rites of passage for young Fey that simply were what was done. On Halloween, young Fey – those either newly dreamed or reforming from some little death – took part in the Revel. It's purpose was to give the fledglings a chance to ply their natures, and earn their places in the society they chose. Being rare siblings, Rede and Raith had despaired of remaining together till it was seen that both had certain traits that would lend to them staying paired so.

In time, the pair had found a calling, a profession of sorts in the myriad tangle of their Court's many paths. The only hitch, was they needed to perform an act of vengeance... but it could not be for their own or each other's sake.

Unsure what to do, the pair had decided to go ahead with their third Revel. Though it was unusual for young ones to take so long in sealing their path, many held a grudging respect for their abject disregard to standard ideals. It wasn't often the young were so strongly decided on a course of action. This year though something had gone differently. An agent, a random figure from the Court had approached them with a message.

_Come here, to this town. Wait for one marked of sun and shadow. Your path would be clear._

Neither had missed the rune carved in Harry's forehead, a crude thing but still, it was there. It was why they both stammered and stalled so pathetically when he had appeared. Neither had expected something so seemingly fated to happen to them. That it happened on their Revel wasn't missed either... and then the bombshell. Maeve's mark.

Harry was the one. He would help them find their path.

',',',',',','

It was an exhausted and delirious Harry Potter that tried to quietly stumble up to his relatives' home. Behind him, looking as weary and content, Rede and Raith shuffled up, arms about each other's waist. Reaching the door, Harry turned and sighed, a sad smile on his lips. "I have to go now, but I wanted to say this was the best night ever. Thanks," with a brief shuffle of feet, he was by them and enclosing the two in a short but intense hug. Pulling away, Harry made to escape into the house until a small hand took his shoulder, stopping him.

Raith, stoic and quiet most of the night, had a very intense look about his pale amber eyes. Over the night, they'd managed to talk for long hours, and in that time Harry had slowly opened up to the two. It helped that they really wanted to know about the young hu-changeling, he corrected. That fact had become obvious.

The enigmatic missive before leaving the Court, Halloween, meeting Maeve's fabled changeling... it was all too much coincidence. Add to it the stories Harry told... Rede and he didn't need to discuss it. Harry had lead them to their Calling, and soon they'd be set on it with his help. Having gotten to known him, even briefly, the two couldn't think of a better finish to their Revel.

Looking into Harry's eyes, Raith smiled and for the first time, Harry noted how sharp his teeth seemed. "Harry, we need to do something... but we need invited inside." Looking to his new friends briefly, Harry nodded and stepped aside after opening the door. Rede shot him such a look of gratitude that he felt a little more lightheaded than his simple weariness explained. Her eyes were a deeper gold than Raith's, and she seemed to communicate so much from them. He was grateful then that these two Fey didn't share Ixipti's and Maeve's peculiar eye coloration.

Still, Harry wondered what they needed to do – and what possible reason it needed to be here. "I don't mind, but my relatives are horrible, you remember the... things I've said," pausing, he grimaced. The two Fey children nodded somberly. "What did you need to do?"

Rede stood a bit taller, flashing Harry another toothy smile. This was it. They were in... and Harry had helped. She ushered Raith in, helping Harry as well before setting the door closed with a small click. A gesture and the room's air seemed to go cooler, as she sealed the home. "It's part of why we come out on Halloween, Harry. We need to do some work for our people, before we can head home."

"Do you need help?" Harry's innocent question was met by smiles from the siblings.

Shaking her head, Rede sized up the house, tracking the sounds of sleeping humans. Raith answered in a quiet, heavy voice, "You've been more help than you know, Harry."

"Yes, thank you Harry," Rede said somberly, pulling a strange white thing from her deep pockets. Raith, seeing it took out a similar one.

Harry was perplexed as he looked between the two. "I'd... I don't know what you mean, but really I'd offer any hospitality I could. I mean you can't stay the night, someone will see and you really don't want to be implicated at helping me in front of my relatives..." trailing off, Harry found himself saying too much again, having tried hard not to simply curse and swear about his life in front of them. He really enjoyed their company, and didn't want to be a burden – physical or mental on them. Still, he really couldn't let them stay the night. "What was it you needed to do?"

Rede, seeing Harry's confusion and willingness to help reached out and with a small surge of her magic, set him to sleep. Before his eyes had fully closed, the young girl and her brother helped him to his cupboard, frowning in turn but listening to Ixipti's reasons. Setting him gently down, Rede kneeled before the young boy, "Harry, we're just going to dye our caps. We'll be done and gone soon."

Nodding sleepily at her explanation, the drowsing child nodded off, only a minute after entering his home. Dye their caps... Petunia had dyed his clothes sometimes... he was sure they'd find the tubs she kept for it in the washroom. Mumbling about such things and flowers, Harry succumbed to sleep.

Outside of his cupboard, the siblings shared an excited glance. Tonight would be it! They even had help from Maeve's own changeling! It was perfect...

Walking quietly up the stairs, no small feat as their boots were made of cursed iron, the pair smiled shark's smiles.

Upstairs the target of those smiles flailed about fitfully in sleep. He continued to flail about as remarkably strong hands held him down and silenced, as row upon row of serrated teeth made a pointed introduction to his throat.

',',',',',','

Harry dreamed that night, mind weary and dazed from the hours spent playing with the siblings and the other less brave Fey that had shown themselves that night. He never imagined there were so many... and so strange! Still, they were better than any children he knew, less assuming and just there for fun it seemed.

The dreams were odd, nightmares almost, but there was a sense of peace about them. Something in them eased him. It was almost as if the quality of the nightmare, that fear and anxiety, simply rolled off him. No, he didn't shed them – he absorbed them. Took the fear and the other dark emotions the images would have built in him and brought them inside, where they warmed and seemed to dim the world around him.

During one such dream, he watched mesmerized as a pair of strange creatures, hugely muscled and with small, large eared heads, hauled what looked to be a huge pig with blond hair and striped pajamas forward, feet trussed up to a pole. The creatures carried the pole between them, as the host of Fey and shadowy things around him cheered, another small group lighting a bonfire.

A barbecue! Harry laughed and started dancing around with the others, seeing and seeking out the siblings Rede and Raith later. The two were busy with preparing the odd looking pig, and again Harry noted their well-hidden maws of teeth. They made him shiver, but it was more an instinct reaction than any worry. They were his friends.

The party went on, and distantly Harry heard the squealing of the pig. How odd, he didn't know they'd cook it alive... shuddering a bit, he focused on the games that were played, and shortly the Fey broke up to feast.

Laid out before them, on a great slap of blue-black stone was the enormous pig, skin blackened and cracked, the great platter below it bloody and smeared with grease from it's cooking. Harry blanched, passing as the host seemed to take a moment to breathe quietly, smiling at him. Blinking, the young boy realized they were waiting on him.

Feeling the words appropriate, Harry clapped, breaking the silence, "Let the Feast begin!"

Even were he hungry, he'd have lost his appetite as the Fey host descended on the roast beast, tearing at it with jaws that hinged too wide, or wicked knives that seemed to appear in hand, or in some cases just their own terrible claws. Still, these were his friends – he was happy they were pleased. He noted with interest now that Rede and Raith wore what looked like red berets, their hair blotched underneath them, the remembered white locks stained a dingy burgundy for some of it's length. He noted, watching the host feed, to tell them next time to let the caps dry first.

',',',',',','

From blissful sleep to frightened awareness was not the best way to start a day. Harry didn't know what had happened to scare him so, but it had set his heart to hammering just as he opened his eyes. Looking about, he saw Ixipti dangling irritated off a lock of hair, and gently pushed her back onto this head.

Then the noises returned. A keening wail that he initially thought was a siren, but it then ended in an anguished sob. It came from above. Huge, heavy steps sped along, and then a great bang.

Harry huddled in the furthest corner of his cupboard, wary of the wailing that was going on above him. Shortly the noise seemed to move, as the heavy steps thudded purposefully around, murmuring apparent through the house's walls.

Vernon's steps, and Petunia's as well, crashed down the stairs, hesitant and seeming to slip in places as the man bellowed. "BOY! I'll kill you for this! What have you done!"

"My Dudley!" Petunia wailed, outside the door, the last syllable of his cousins name turning into that horrid keen he'd heard earlier that obviously woke him. The fierce rattling and groaning of the doorknob of his cupboard had Harry scampering frightened and wary to the back of the small dark space.

"Boy! Open this damned door! You won't escape this, oh no," starting at a shout, Vernon's voice went low and menacing, as he yanked and jostled the door. Only now did Harry note the usual cracks of light around it missing. Curious but unwilling to go closer, he swallowed again as Vernon slammed a meaty fist into the wood, only to have it bruised. "Damn you! Come out of there!"

Petunia's wailing only seemed to enrage the man, and shortly the two of them were a deafening cacophony: Vernon's battering on a door that should have splintered by now, Petunia claiming him and his magic had killed her boy, and his uncles continuing screams about killing him next.

Harry had started crying at this point, scared for his life. Ixipti crooned and trilled at him, trying to calm him but to no avail, as the noise outside only grew. The absence of Vernon only made him more nervous, and to good end as when he returned, he did so with an axe.

The bite of it slammed into the door, as dust flew off the old wood and a pinprick of light marked where the door had been breached. "You can't hide there forever, boy! I'll drag you out and cut you to ribbons! My boy, my boy is dead because of you, freak!" Another hit with the axe.

_Thump_. The wood creaked and split beneath it. The pinprick became a gash.

_Thump_. Another gash. The door wouldn't hold long. Ixi clenched at Harry's mop of hair, shivering and quiet now.

_Crack_. Wood splintered and the dust from the upset was thick now, spears of light painting across Harry's wide and frightened eyes.

A clatter, then Vernon's meaty fist crashed through the breach, opening it wider just from force. Bending at the elbow, the arm went to where the knob on Harry's side should be, but then curled back into a fist. The man had forgotten they removed it.

"Open this door now!" What had surprised Harry at those words, wasn't that they were spoken from Vernon.

"I won't have any more freaks in this house! Get out! Go!" Vernon's hand disappeared and a metallic scrape told the young boy he again had the axe. "Leave!"

A murmur then the report of a gun sent Harry into a panic, as he wrapped cold hands around his legs and rocked, sure now that Vernon would kill him. He didn't need to reach him with a gun, only point it in the door.

"He's armed!", "Drop the weapon! Drop it!" Unfamiliar voices filtered through the broken door, as Vernon bellowed, and Petunia screeched anew.

"Get out of my bloody house you-"

Another report, and Petunia's scream cut off in a strangled sigh, followed by a thump. Vernon's voice spiked and choked on itself as the man seemed to lose his breath. Another thump, this time followed by the now familiar sound of an axe hitting the floor.

A moment of silence spread about the house, as Harry quietly sobbed into his knees. What was going on? What did they mean he killed Dudley? Who were the other voices?

"Woman's fainted dead away, fat man too. Shock likely, you only winged him."

"Cor, look at all the blood... Francine, Ted, upstairs."

A brief glimpse of a head passing the doorway caught Harry's vision, and he gasped in fear.

"Oh my... CHARLES! There's a boy locked in this room!"

Harry was talked down from his panic by the people outside, identifying themselves as local police called in by a neighbor's tip. The noise of the Dursley's threats had apparently not gone unheard, and it seemed to Harry that at least one neighbor actually did care that someone could have gotten hurt. Shortly after being pulled out of the room – it seemed the door had swollen up in it's casement from the blood that was running down the landing, and needed to be hauled off it's hinges – the small boy was escorted out and into a squad car. A distant part of him was amazed that Dudley's blood had saved him from his uncle. That thought made him shiver, realizing his horrid cousin was dead, and now he had no place at all to live... Harry began crying again, a lost and lonely boy who's world seemed intent on collapsing around him.

With promises that the Dursleys would never hurt him again, the older man who'd helped him out of the room set him in the car. He never realized that it was a misplaced sense of displacement that Harry was feeling, being pulled away from the only home he'd known. It wasn't good, it wasn't happy, but where else did he have?

Looking back at the house, the same officer stifled a grimace. Abuse and murder. Figures, always the quiet neighborhoods.

',',',',',','


	5. Shrieks In the Shack

**Shrieks In the Shack**

_"Back when I first started Hogwarts, I remember all the tales people used to tell about the Shack. How it was haunted, the most haunted place in magical Britain even. Ah, there really is no place like home." -Harry Potter_

Halloween had set a precedent, in both Harry Potter's, and Dumbledore's minds that year. For Harry, it was a time of wary joy, understanding in later years that no good deed or happenstance goes without it's cost. To the Headmaster, it was simply a reminder that he must try harder, for there were two paths in life: the easy way, and the right way.

This became most apparent to Dumbledore after arriving at the police station, and blanching at the news he'd received. Arabella had informed him, with no lack of volume, that something horrible had happened at Four, Privet and fearing the worst, the Headmaster had floo'd over. Seeing the departing police cars, he'd quietly sighed, resigning himself to an afternoon of chasing down muggles and reports, trying to locate the young boy to which he owed a great debt. He also decided to find a more sensible minder for the young lad. Figg had her good points – being a sentinel was not one of them.

Only an hour later, a gray suited Dumbledore sat before a warrant officer, gravely taking in the plight of his errant 'nephew'. With a few minutes quiet wand-work, the Ministry scrip he held that would allow him to make legitimate seeming muggle documents, and a bit of patience, the Headmaster was on his way to collecting his young charge.

It took him a solid minute of watching the young Potter Scion to gather his wit and nerve. _First steps_, he told himself, _were the hardest_. Though the windowed door was small, it was large enough to see the despair and hopelessness on the young man's face. Stepping through the door, Dumbledore forewent his usual disarming smile, simply greeting the young man quietly. "Good morning, Mr. Potter."

Looking up, the lad's green eyes peered out from behind murky, dirty glasses. The person before him didn't seem familiar, but there was an... itch, in his head that put him ill at ease. He seemed safe enough, in the way old people tended to, but there was a sense of purpose and resolve about him that made the young boy wary. His long beard, faded white and lined face spoke a long life, the beard alone making Harry think the man older than anyone he'd ever seen before. "Hello," he called faintly, wondering who this new person was. He wasn't in the uniform of the police, and Harry had never seen him at the school before. Unsure he kept seated, feeling the slight weight of Ixipti stirring from her nest in his hair.

Taking the seat across from the young boy, Dumbledore tried to plot a course, one best for Harry Potter, not... other ideals. "My name, is Albus Dumbledore. I am Headmaster, that is like a principal, at a school for... gifted children," with a pause, the man reached up and rubbed at his nose, looking pained. "I would like to offer you some help, Harry."

Brow furrowing, the young man peered at the wizened and tired looking person across from him. As he did, Ixipti stirred and muttered something incomprehensible, falling back down onto his crown with a small thump. Satisfied that he was relatively safe, Harry's expression softened. He still had questions, though, "Why? Why are you helping me?"

Wincing, Dumbledore hazarded to probe at the young man's reluctance, "Is it so odd, to offer help without wanting anything in return?"

"In a word, yes," the young boy replied in a tone that held little but jaded bitterness.

Sighing, Dumbledore considered the moment, the past, and the possible future, taking this moment in example. If left as he was, had the... murder, of his cousin not occurred, the young man's desire to help and aid others would likely have been annihilated. Perhaps it already was... and all due to his unseeing reliance on an ideal that neglected the trees, yet preached the wellbeing of the woods. He could not see receiving help without some trap, some motive, so how could he give it?

"Then let me be something odd," Dumbledore stated solidly, regarding Harry with frank evenness. "I would offer you lodging, housekeep, and in the near future, a place to learn and people around you to help you grow. Would you like that?"

Harry regarded the man with open suspicion, yet he had little options, which he knew. There was no chance he could return to the Dursley's home. With what people were saying about Dudley, he'd be next in hours, if that long. He was worried about something, a niggling, nibbling concern that promised to sneak out of the shadows and become something huge and horrible, but for now it was a minor thing.

He _needed_ a place to live. "I would. What is the cost?"

Refusing to show his disappointment in how badly things had turned, feeling that in time he could perhaps see the boy lowering his guard somewhat, Dumbledore forged on, "The cost is high. I would like you to have a happy childhood, something I'm afraid has been denied you by some rather thoughtless mistakes. It's a steep price, but I'm certain in time, you will find a way to repay it."

Despite himself, Harry chuckled. "Perhaps."

"Very good then. I have just the place in mind, as it turns out. A student of mine in the late seventies used it. I hope you don't mind dust," with a gesture, the man pulled forth a small piece of tangled string, and a remarkably ornate stick of wood. "Take hold, and hold tight."

"Sir," Harry asked, looking concerned, "will it be... well rough?"

Dumbledore considered the child a moment and hedged. "I suppose, till you become used to such things. Do you suffer motion sickness?"  
Shaking his head very slightly, Harry reached up, as if he were going to run his fingers nervously through his hair, instead laying a cupped palm atop his messy mop. "No, just curious really."

Curious indeed, Dumbledore thought, but filed the item away for later. Tapping the string, he handed the other side to Harry, and they were off.

',',',',',','

Dumbledore had considered taking the boy to Pomfrey, for a checkup to see to any injuries he had, or other issue that would need more attention, but in truth he felt it more... appropriate to take young Potter to St. Mungo's. Reasoning it was best to trust such things to those with more resources, their first stop was the magical hospital. He hoped they would be leaving in good spirits, but hope was a fickle thing to rely on.

Harry had seemed wary, till the Headmaster explained his reasoning for the stop. "Harry, there are many things that can go wrong with us, if we ignore them. Problems of the body, the soul and... mind," looking at the large building before them, as Harry looked at the old man, Dumbledore's face crinkled into a frown. "We must be ready to see these things and correct them."

"I see," shrugging, Harry let himself be lead into the hospital. Were he a normally raised muggle or magical child that had grown up around normal things and practices, the building would have been a wonder in and of itself. Magical lifts, animated portraits, people rushing about with those sticks like Harry had seen, even one with a huge walking cane, topped by a sculpture of an eagle. To Harry though, this was his first visit to such a place, and it was all curious, all new.

Watching him as unobtrusively as possible, Dumbledore analyzed Harry's reactions, seeing them for what they were. He noted the boy's posture, at odds with his history, and the few small affectations he had.

One would expect a beaten down young man to be hunched, looking as if the very mental weight they bore was physical. Yet, Harry's head was held high. His eyes were clear and observant, not suspicious and distrustful. Oh there was wariness there, but it was caution, not paranoia. Even the young man's manner when spoken to relayed a personal strength, a kind of assurance. Dumbledore wondered at that.

Were he to ask Harry, and find a way to relate his questions, the answers would likely confound the Headmaster. Harry's posture was mostly due to Ixipti, and getting used to her awkward perches on his head and shoulder. Though he was suspicious of people, he found it easier to discern their motives if he found they trusted him, or at least were honest. The best way for that, was to be direct as well. Harry kept his eyes open, and his attention on his surroundings because failing to do so resulted in pain, he'd learned from the Dursley's. As for his personality and manner, Harry would simply shrug, possibly smiling at Ixipti for this answer, "I am. Being is being. Why be something else?" Harry was Harry. There was no reason to something else, so he was comfortable with that. After all, he'd had eight years to be Harry.

He'd not like to have to spend time being someone else.

',',',',',','

It was a tired and weary pair of travelers that appeared outside of Hogsmeade that afternoon. The smaller of the two had a satchel bag across his shoulder, while the taller, older man seemed to be walking with a worn step. "Are you alright, Headmaster?"

Harry's question brought a smile to Dumbledore's face. "I will be fine, Harry. I just don't get out quite as much these days, and you must admit, it's been a long day."

"I suppose so," still, his words didn't... feel truthful. Not malicious. Just off. Mentally Harry just shrugged it off, as people often said things like this, to make others feel better. He'd not worried on it, as it just seemed human nature. Fake affectation to hide feelings or weakness, even though others were concerned or worried. Still, his smile was genuine, which eased the young boy's mind. "Are we nearly there?" For all his concern, the older man was right – it had been a very long day.

After the hospital and a very thorough checkup, he'd been issued a set of vials that would refill out of the St. Mungo's stock for the next month, two for some of the medicines. He was to take a number of them on differing time frames, outlined by a small blackboard inside the satchel that would chime in an annoying way were he to forget one.

Beyond St. Mungo's, there was a small shopping trip, where he'd acquired new clothes that fit, and a few small creature comforts for where they were going. Dumbledore had stated the house was old, and in dire need of cleaning, after all. Harry had wondered at the money being spent, but Dumbledore had assured him, it would be alright. In time, he'd be able to pay him back for these small kindnesses. Grudgingly, the young boy acquiesced, but made a note to keep his eyes open. His experience with people didn't let him simply trust kind acts for their own sake.

The two made their weary way to the end of the street that bisected the primary lane of Hogsmeade, before coming up to a somewhat grim, old place that the Headmaster identified as the Shrieking Shack. "Now, contrary to what you may hear, Harry," the aged man said as they passed the gate, "this place is not haunted."

"Haunted, sir?"

Smiling, Albus stopped a few paces from the home and nodded, looking about and seeing not the house but the memories. The Marauders, the Old Guard. Thoughts on Harry's parent's and godfather shot a pang of sorrow and regret through the man, and brought back to the fore memories that he'd need to see to. So much work to do... "Yes. Well, it's not, in truth," Dumbledore said quietly, a sad smile directed at his young charge. "You see, a very unhappy, somewhat sick young man had to make this his home on occasion, long ago.

"It was those noises, as he had the hardest of his days, that gave this place it's rather unique name." Walking forward, the wizard tapped his wand to a wall, and stated, "I, Albus Dumbledore, pass on the custodianship of the Shack to Harry Potter. So mote it be."

To Harry's amazement, the place below where Dumbledore had tapped his wand shimmered and wavered in his sight, becoming a doorway. "Harry, only you and those you physically invite through this doorway will be able to pass in this way. Long ago it was necessary to use powerful means to keep people out, as the young man who used to live here could have hurt people, during his worst days. It was to protect him, from the anguish in knowing he'd hurt others, and the people themselves who have been tempted by the Shack's reputation." Pausing in his little monologue, the Headmaster smiled to the boy. "Now, if you would guide me inside? I can no longer see the door."

One more wonder to add to the others that day, Harry noted. Taking the Headmaster's hand, he opened the door and led the old man inside. Immediately, they both coughed lightly, the dust sending up small clouds that had them waving hands before their faces. "A little dusty," Harry noted with a slight grin.

"Yes, quite. I do believe it is time for me to introduce you to someone that may be able to help you." With a small clap, a curious little being, maybe as tall as Harry's elbow, appeared next to the young boy, only startling him slightly. Dumbledore noted this with a raised brow, another item to think on. "Milly, this is Harry. You will be helping him with the Shack."

The little creature looked around itself with open attention, as Harry looked at it. A sleepy mutter from Ixi let him know she would soon be waking, but he didn't worry on it now. Instead, he took in the details of the odd little thing before him. It was thin, somewhat gangly for it's size, with hands and feet too long for it's body. This trend continued for it's nose, long and thin, and it's ears, that flopped about it's head. Large, watery blue eyes finally rested on him, and in the next moment he was staring at empty air.

"Milly?" Dumbledore called, his brow furrowing slightly. "Where have you gone?"

"Oh... oh Master Dumbly-door what are you asking poor Milly to do..." The voice seemed to echo about, as if the speaker were all around them. With a sharp tug at his hair from Ixi, Harry looked up, a few moments before Dumbledore had done so. There, crouched shivering in the rafters, was the odd little thing.

Dumbledore blinked owlishly at the house elf. "Milly come back down here please." With a pop, the little thing stood before him, shivering and quaking like a leaf. "What is wrong? You know the Shack is safe."

"Milly knows this, master Dumbly-door. Milly is just... _scared_."

The Headmaster had all intent to ask the little elf what in the world had taken hold of it, when Harry surprised him by kneeling down before the frightened elf. "Hi, Milly."

With a whimper, the house elf began hyperventilating.

"It's ok," the boy soothed, smiling slightly. Dumbledore saw him shuffle and tug at his collar, noting himself that it was somewhat warm in the old, stale air. In truth, the boy had pulled out his pendant and was showing it to the little creature. Quietly, he mouthed the question, "_you can see?_"

Milly shuddered and closed her eyes, her somewhat brownish skin paling to an unhealthy beige.

Harry didn't know how to properly sort the little thing's fear, but what he'd assumed was a closed, private world just his, with his Fey, had been shattered the night before. Halloween, Maeve, the siblings and the Revel as they called it, with all the other half-seen and wary Fey had shown him the world was much broader. Today's revelations had only increased this idea, adding more color to the boy's already expanding universe. He'd seen things that defied explaining, seen his relatives go mad, seen what he could only call magic performed by people with small sticks and devices.

That Dumbledore didn't think to actually describe these things told him much. Perhaps the old man assumed it was normal. Perhaps it was, and Harry just wasn't in the know. There were many questions, and when he'd tried to ask, they were simply answered with a promise of later, or soon. Unsatisfied, Harry had acquiesced. Given, the number of things they'd done didn't allow for much idle chatter. The sun was nearly set and they were still just inside the door to the Shack, after all.

That brought his mind back to Milly. Apparently she was also... magical. And judging by the fact Harry knew Dumbledore could not see his pendant, but Milly could, told him she was somewhat Fey. Her fear though worried him. Why? What would make her so scared of him, as she seemed to indicate?

_Maeve_. He could only think it was her, as his own Fey seemed scared of her too. Ixipti being an example, shivering and worried before the odd woman despite being her own servant, as it was explained. With Harry as her godson... ah.

"I won't hurt you," he said again, very quietly to the little creature, who sniffled and blinked frightened eyes at him, once. Her face took on a pleading cast and he pointed to the pendant, making her shiver again, "I promise."

The little things eyes went huge. "Yous promise on your-" she cut off as he raised a finger to his lips, drawing a curious stare from Dumbledore, that he didn't see. With a nod, Harry set the little elf at ease, and she looked bashfully between the two before her. "Milly is sorry master Dumbly-door. Milly is just not used to... new people," reaching up she began to wring at her ears, clenching at them and drawing her long-fingered hands down their length.

Dumbledore sat back and watched the proceedings with a keen interest. Though the young boy was careful, he was still a child. It was obvious something about the young lad had worried the house elf, frightened her even. That he could calm her seemed to indicate the lad knew what it was that frightened her... and that he was able to convince the small creature he had little cause to do so. The child was eight years old. There was no reason that the Headmaster could think of that would cause that kind of reaction, unless there was an outside influence... Albus bit down on his tongue to keep a gasp from escaping. Certain tests from the hospital, this... something frightening and terrible took root in his mind.

He would need to keep a close eye on the child. Shaking off his worry, the needs of the immediate moment came to the fore. "Milly, as I was saying," he began again, as if nothing had occurred, catering to the two and their transparent conversation, "you will be Mr. Potter's help about the Shack. It will be a lot of effort, but you are very attentive and a diligent worker."

"Yes, master Dumbly-door," the elf commiserated. "Yous wants Milly to attend to the spooky Shack and Mr Harry."

Dumbledore nodded, smiling slightly. "Yes. I will also have another help you with keeping things in order, where I may be busy attending the school. I will call on you in that case."

Harry watched as the old man dictated terms and ideals to the little creature, his eyes narrowing slightly. Again, he was struck by the oddity of the situation, this time as a man who'd been nothing but kind to him, despite not knowing him, told another person – he never thought of the Fey as less than their own beings, and this thinking, willful person who could both be polite and know fear was no different – what to do, what not to, and without asking. He simply ordered it. For a moment he thought to intervene, seeing in Dumbledore a shadow of Vernon suddenly but it passed, as the man was quiet and polite about it.

He needed time to think. And to speak to Milly, privately. Harry would have been surprised to hear those very notions mirrored from the Headmaster.

',',',',',','

"You have a lot of nerve, asking me something like this," with a muted crack the man behind the bar slammed the thick-walled mug he'd recently been cleaning into the wood there, denting it. With all the other rough gouges, dents and scuffs though, the newest addition seemed inconsequential.

Albus sighed heavily, more weary than he'd felt in decades. "I know, Aberforth. Trust me, I know that this is... highly unusual."

With a grunt the younger Dumbledore sibling poured himself a glass of mead and regarded his regaled brother with a shrewd eye. Albus, after a minute of such attention, began to fidget. "Alright. I'll look in on him occasionally. I'm glad you're coming to your senses about this."

Nodding without looking up, Albus Dumbledore closed his eyes, relaxing just a little, for the first time that day. He'd worked hard, pushing his reactions and instincts back and keeping his Occlumency shields up strong, heavy, and focused. He'd no worry on Harry's ability to read him – no he was worried on his own mental state. He must not fall into old habits again. Must not begin acting on false ideals like the 'Greater Good' without also taking into account the people he used in such things. People who had lives as precious as any other, and should not be made pawns at anyone's whim. "Thank you, Aberforth."

Another grunt, this time fainter was his only answer for a long moment. "I'm proud of you, you know."

Albus blinked up, honestly surprised at this. "What?"

"Not for Gellert. That was due, and not for being Grand Warlock bootlicker, or head of that school. This. You're doing right this time," with a wry smile, the man poured another drink, the glass clean this time. He sat it before a watery-eyed Dumbledore. "I think Ariana would be proud too."

More than anything else, Dumbledore decided to keep on his path. If only for these small moments.

',',',',',','

Harry's first week in the Shack was a curious time. Unlike the Dursley's home, he had no way to actually cook, no way to set the lights or even control the heat. Everything that went on with the running and sorting of his day, happened thanks to Milly.

This he found immediately unacceptable, yet there was little he could do.

Milly herself presented a curious situation as well. Though he had made a promise, and it was taken quickly by the house elf as she came to identify herself, Milly had yet to relax around him. This ran wholly counter to Ixipti's and the other Fey he'd encountered, as they had all been friendly to him, or at least not frightened.

Harry grumbled, the seventh day from his arrival, as the elf quickly popped in with a huge tray of food then back out as suddenly. Like he was dangerous! Ixi slept in his hair! Sighing, he sat down to eat, like every other day this past week.

He wasn't ungrateful for his place to live, or the help Milly was. Harry was just terribly unfamiliar with how to live on his own, and without any kind of distractions, it was beginning to tell on his mind. He couldn't clean, for Milly had already scoured the Shack down to the wood grain. He couldn't cook, as there was no kitchen. There was nothing to do, and worst of all, Dumbledore seemed to have forgotten that Harry was still in school. With some anxiety Harry had watched the road outside, wondering if a bus came along it perhaps, but in all the day he'd been here, not one car had come by.

Not one. It wasn't normal, at all.

That afternoon, with the turn of the day, Ixipti woke and mumbled in a curious way. Usually she slept in till later these days, as bored as Harry, but it was barely past noon. Harry was idly running his hands along the deep scratches he found in the lower parts of the Shack, when the tiny Fey sat bolt upright, tumbling off his head with her sudden movement.

Harry spun about, but Ixipti had caught herself mid fall and was hovering, hands in front of her face. "Ixi, what's going on? Is something-"

"Maeve!" the little one squeaked, darting back up the stairwell.

Standing dumbly for a moment, Harry gasped and rushed after, hearing the Carriage's telltale noise as he made it onto the main floor. With a broad smile he burst out of the main door, to the familiar sight of the two strange, still horses, the headless coachman, and Maeve, now in a simple dress of midnight blue. The enigmatic woman favored him with a small smile, and looked about the area. "How very curious."

Ixipti had darted into his collar again, when he went outside and was now peering intently at the woman. Harry noted this and grinned, "I didn't know you'd be by till Ixi had a small fit."

Maeve laughed, walking beyond the fence, sending a crackle of blue and frost over an unseen barrier. "Silly wizards," she mumbled, coming up beside Harry with a look of pride and happiness. "I see and heard that you enjoyed the Revel with a few of the younger of my Court. I am glad."

Harry smiled a moment, till a memory of the day after darkened his features. The Lady took note and tucked her arm into Harry's. "Show me your home. I would like to see where the old spider has tried to hide you now."

As he showed her about the shack, conversation turned again to Halloween. He talked about the siblings Rede and Raith, and Maeve told him that yes, she knew of the their task. "I was the one that sent them to your town, Harry."

By this point, Harry had connected the dots, and realized that the nice children he'd met had actually been the ones to kill Dudley. Though he harbored no love for the fat, cruel, angry boy, still... it seemed off. Perhaps, he realized, it was his aunt and uncle's ideals clouding him. He didn't feel bad at all for Dudley, so why did he think it wrong? In all truth, the siblings saved him possibly years of abuse and torment at the Dursley's hands. The thing, he realized that was missing, was – "Why? Why did they kill him?"

Maeve looked to Harry, her eyes inscrutable in the dark, "The siblings you met were on the path to become part of my Court," the pale woman explained, gesturing to the simple benches and chairs arranged, sitting. Harry followed suit. "For them to continue on, 'grow up' as it were, they had to take specific actions. A Rite of Passing, as we think of it."

"Rite? What did they need to do? What did it have to do with me?"

Favoring him with a patient smile, Maeve reached out and took Harry's hand, "When you told them of yourself, did you think that a friend, or even a moral neutral, would have stood by and done nothing? You are a good boy, Harry. You didn't deserve the Dursleys."

Looking down, Harry, sniffled once, nodding. The pale Lady went on, voice carrying her feelings easily, "I knew, but wasn't in a place to act. Ixi, as you call her, was my will there, and she kept you as happy as possible. I see you two are still fast friends, and hope that doesn't change. In time, as you grow, so will she."

Harry looked to his small friend, who gave him a brief, hesitant smile. "I'd like that."

"She would as well," Maeve said with a chuckle. "But, back to the siblings. I sent them on their Revel, which is also a time of passage for us, in my Court. For their path, they had take an act of vengeance against someone. It could not be themselves, or one another."

Blinking at Maeve, the young boy's brow furrowed slightly. "Is it the same for everyone?"

"Not at all. Sometimes it's something simple. Fetch an artifact. Acquire some rare thing. The point, really, is to do something with _impact_," Maeve struck her outstretched, free hand on the nearby table, startling Harry. "Yes. Something to get attention. To shake up sleepy minds."

Laughing mirthlessly, Harry nodded. "I was rather shaken, that's for sure."

Joining him in laughing, Maeve sat back, "So were the police, the papers, the neighbors... your friends – and they would still be your friends if you'd have them – did marvelous work.

"But they also did me a favor, and for that I'll be very happy... if you'd consider taking them up on that friendship," the woman said, voice going soft. "You see, the old man that collected you, placed you here today? He was the same man that placed you there, at the Dursleys to begin with."

Harry's blood went chill at this, and he stared, unseeing out at the far wall. At his shoulder, Ixipti chittered and tried to get his attention, tried to keep him from a black melancholy. "Why?"

Sighing, Maeve closed her midnight eyes, "He tried to protect you – let me finish," she said quickly, feeling rather than seeing Harry's incredulous words nearly burst out of him. "He meant well. He thought you'd be protected by old magic... but he didn't know that what sacrifice your mother had made, what magics she'd done, was call on me. I was that protection."

Despite Maeve's words, Harry couldn't help feeling a swell of anger for the man who had orchestrated his childhood. That swell became a torrent when Harry realized it was happening, again, "He put me here. Again, I don't have a home. This place is just as bad as the cupboard. Oh, it's bigger, but what's the point? I don't know this place, I can't go to school, I can't even cook! It's not a home! It's just a place to be!"

Maeve shivered in the wake of Harry's anger, breathing it in deeply. "Harry, what would make this place home? What do you think would help?"

"Well," stalling, the young boy sighed heavily. "I guess people. Someone to be around, that cares. I've felt so alone, really. I... never knew my parents, and the Dursleys weren't anything like a family to me."

"I'm afraid I can't give you a family, other than myself, Harry," Maeve said, smiling at the young boy as he picked up on her meaning and stared at her wide-eyed. "Yes, Harry. I'm going to try very hard to be a part of your life from here on. I'm able now, if you'll have me."

Again, she was wrapped up in the boy's arms, as he clung to her tightly. With a content warmth, Maeve wrapped her own arms about Harry. It had only been days since the last time she'd felt the child's embrace about her, his unconditional trust in someone that could possibly, maybe, take away his pain. In that much time, she'd come to long for that sensation, that closeness and the... satisfaction? of being needed, wanted.

She'd tried, in her way, not to betray that. It had been seven years, the Ritual had demanded no less. In that time she could not act directly, could not see her child. So, instead she sent Ixipti and her kin, the small Fey, to tend and see to his safety and happiness. It took time for his senses, still mostly human, to come to see her, but he did in time. The two were now fast and loyal friends, and in time she hoped the small Fey to become trusted helpers as well. He would need them...

Seven years, and on Halloween she'd sent Rede and Raith to begin Harry's reclaiming. She now had full reign to teach, contact and sway the child, and the wizarding world be damned! Their action had let the child be willingly relinquished by his kin, breaking the tenuous hold they had on him. Dumbledore further weakened those bonds, by again uprooting Harry. This time he'd meant well perhaps, and was thinking of Harry and not his own schemes, but there was a definite lack in his greater picture.

A child, one as young as Harry, needed others around him. Needed peers, things in his day to occupy his mind, to learn and grow. Mouldering in this dark and dusty cave of a home would be a sure way to drive the young man insane. Of course, she didn't know this by instinct or her own experience – there was a kind, motherly old matron out in the reaches of far off tundra, a place called Siberia, she vaguely recollected, that had yielded those secrets to her. It had only cost her three frostbitten fingers to agree to such an exchange of ideals.

Maeve, though, had a plan. "Do you recall what I said, Harry? About the siblings Rede and Raith? That they would still be your friends? You said that a home needs people, Harry.

"Would you let me and those of my Court be that for you?" Drawing back, Maeve looked into the young boy's eyes, seeing naked hope and longing there, far overriding his faint sense of worry about the circumstances behind the Redcap's acts. With a stifled sniffle, Harry nodded and affected a slight smile. "Good, thats a good boy."

Knowing Harry had little in the way of creature comforts in his life, Maeve took that as her first task. Her Scion may need to remain in the human world for now, till he was strong enough to manage the currents and challenges of her rather dangerous realm, but he need not do so in squalor. Still, Harry would also not appreciate the lavish comforts of a palace... having only known the barest of amenities.

Standing, Maeve looked about the house, the room she was in. From Harry's short tour, she knew the layout, and from his own and other minds the 'basics' of a human home. Harry watched, curious as Maeve rose her arm and began to sing, in the odd tongue she and Ixipti spoke.

The words, what he could make out were descriptions, rich and ringing. Maeve's voice was as well, tolling like a bell about the Shack, seeming to reverberate and press at the very walls. He could almost see the words – and with a jolt Harry realized he _could_. As she sang, the room changed, the rough-hewn benches and chairs becoming simple but comfortable furnishings, the walls flattening, evening, tinting to a pale sky-blue. Throughout the Shack, the change took, making the dark and unwelcoming hovel a home, comfortable and livable for a young child. Into the main room she sang a glamor of walls, Maeve's eyes closing in concentration as she focused her considerable magics into bending the will of reality to her own.

Harry watched, amazed as his godmother sang, then gasped as during her slow sway and spin in the middle of the room, great furling wings that looked made of rimed frost on glass spun from her back. Between the pinions of ice and frost curled wisps of darkness and haze, and as Maeve lent her power to the spinning of change so potent as to weave small worlds, Harry peered wide-eyed as those wings, fluttered, raising her above the floor.

Only then did it really strike Harry, really sink into his young mind that all this was real. Fey, magic, a world he'd never imagined – and now he was in the middle of it. A real Fairy Godmother, Redcaps, elves... what other things were yet to be discovered?

Maeve felt the wonder rippling off Harry and it was like a heady wine, and with it she bound magic and will into making, changing. That very wonder she pooled into the things she'd shape for him. Smiling, Maeve felt her changes taking seed and hold, then with a savage twist bound them to the essence Twilight.

Harry's eyes were on the things Maeve had done, the new dividing walls, the floor and chairs and room that seemed to shimmer and change before him, turning the old, rickety Shack into something not only familiar and comfortable, but that seemed tailored to him and Maeve, then a sudden shift in his perception set his head to spinning. Blinking rapidly, the young boy gasped as the whole of Maeve's changes shimmered, winking in and out of being, leaving afterimages of the Shack as it was in their place on occasion. "What, what's going on?"

"I've spun you a home, and room for others, but..." Maeve paused, sinking to a chair and closing her eyes for a moment, a content but weary smile on her face. "Yet would it not be strange for this simple home to be suddenly more?"

"I suppose so," Harry answered with a nod, thinking of Dumbledore with a slight frown. "He would likely ask questions, and I don't want to tell him about you."

Maeve chuckled, breathing heavily before catching her breath, "I'd rather you not, as well. So, to make it both yours, here and hidden, I've taken those things I made, and bound them to my realm. Only those of my Court can sense, or even know they exist. To all others, the Shack remains as it was."

Gaping, Harry narrowed his eyes at the flickering room. "I think you did too good a job... it's shifting even as I watch."

Smiling, Maeve closed her eyes and held up a hand, begging for a moment's rest. Harry, feeling rude for not offering before, summoned Milly intent to ask her for something to offer his godmother. With a pop, the house elf appeared, startling Ixipti and Maeve, who locked eyes with the diminutive house elf.

Just as Harry realized his error, Milly reacted to the Unseelie Queen's presence in the most tactically sound, situationally correct way possible. She fainted, falling face first into the floor with a slight thud. "Oops," Harry muttered faintly, as Maeve raised a single frosted brow.

"You keep a Boggan, Harry?" Maeve asked, surprised, knowing the small Fey-kin before her for what her race was.

"Huh?" Looking from Maeve to the unconscious elf, Harry made the connection and shook his head slowly. "Oh, no. But Milly has been the only way I've been kept so far. She brings food and tends the house. Dumbledore called her a house elf, but I was a little worried at his ways. It seemed almost like she was a slave."

Tilting her head, Maeve considered the unconscious form of Milly. "I see. I would think he meant well, as the Boggan are... well. I will explain that another time. There are more important things to do now, before we begin speaking on the ten-thousand names of Fey. You mentioned how the changes I made seemed to flicker, yes?"

Harry boggled slightly at her casual account of the 'names' of Fey and nodded. "As you... well did what you did, I saw what was going on, but then it sort of seems to fade in and out." Closing his eyes, the boy sat hard. "It's making me a little nauseous to be honest."

Maeve nodded, thinking this would likely happen. "The reason Harry, is that you are straddling the worlds, within your mind. Close your eyes." When the young boy did so immediately, the Lady Winter smiled, his trust in her rekindling that warmth within. Taking his hand, she spun a glamor, a simple illusion in the air. "What is in your hand? Don't open your eyes."

Harry felt the object, rolling it about in his palm. It was light, a sphere, seemed to have a grain to it's material and a light polish... "A wooden ball?"

"Open your eyes."

Blinking, Harry's brow furrowed to see only a bit of old stone in his palm, rough and broken. Still, his palm, the weight and texture on it felt no different. "How... I don't understand."

"Glamor. It's a Fey's gift. The talent and skill of fooling the senses. Magic is a tricky thing, Harry. I would ask that you answer me truthfully, when I speak next. And think of the answer, as best you can." The young boy nodded, rolling the odd thing in his hand about, his senses disagreeing with each other and making him flinch every so often. "I can teach you magic. Can make you into a powerfully magic being. But to do so... you will lose a bit of your humanity. Do you understand this?"

Brow creased, Harry shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Good, you are too young really to do so, but I think you deserve to know, to have options," Maeve, somewhat wary of this path, still would have gone forward with her plan. The illusion she spun now was that Harry had a choice... and he did. If he renounced her at this point he could break his tie with the Fey and recoup his already slightly fractured humanity, not that she'd really left him that as an option. The boy was enraptured with her world, and with Dumbledore playing to her tune without even knowing, simple truths to the boy seemed like epiphanies. Each tiny manipulation he made, she would counter with a choice.

Beautiful simplicity.

This choice though, one Maeve intended on him making, would place him more solidly in her realm. The home's glamor, a complex weaving, was a bait, a tease as to the possibilities. The ball in his hand another. As she said, the cost would be a portion of his human nature, something in truth the young boy wouldn't miss, and likely didn't even use. Children were somewhat naive on those things...

"Humanity... we shall call it a measure of how well you and other people shall relate to one another. How closely you feel tied to them. How similar, as opposed to how distant," Choosing her words carefully, Maeve shrugged slightly. "In return, you will gain further insight, more understanding of Fey, like Ixipti, the skill at glamor... our magic. It will also pull you more fully into my realm, and closer to me. These flickering shadows? They will be as solid as stone."

In truth, Harry had already decided, his wonder at the things he'd seen over the week and today swaying him mightily. When Maeve said it would bring him closer to her, he remembered her comment about being stronger, more able to survive in her place, where she lived. This he reasoned, was part of it, part of what would make him so. Unlike Dumbledore and his ways though, she had given him a choice. Harry's eyes narrowed and he nodded, giving his notions voice, "I want to. You've been more family to me in the two days I've known you than anyone... well ever, that I remember. If this makes it easier to talk to Ixi, and maybe... someday," going quiet he dropped his eyes, breath going shallow. "Maybe someday seeing where you live. That place... for you to come from it, it must be amazing." With a rueful smile, he shrugged as she beamed at him. "Besides, I never really got along with other people well. The Dursleys made sure of it. At least now there will be a real reason."

Maeve's heart, chill and frozen, ached at how resolute the boy was. Her boy, her Harry. Perhaps she was as bad as the old weaver, In manipulating him, but this way... she'd seen his fate. Seen the path Dumbledore had set for him, how miserable it would be. Her path, though... he would have choices. It was worth it, for that alone. "Brave boy," she said warmly, and with a startled chuckle, Harry realized that unlike when Vernon or his aunt had used the word 'boy' toward him, he didn't mind Maeve doing so. She just put so much warmth into the word. "Then, I will begin you on your own path, like the siblings before you."

Harry's warm expression flickered a moment, a memory of bloody stairs snapping into mind. Maeve saw this hesitation, but did not worry. "Do you trust me, Harry?" she asked quietly.

Nodding, the young boy looked back into her depthless black eyes. "I do."

"Know that I won't ask you to make any choices that would counter your own ideals. When your Path opens before you, you will know it. Like Rede and Raith, you will not consider the thing you are tasked with against your nature. Such is our way," Maeve declared easily, honestly.

Nodding again, Harry accepted what she said, realizing that even though the two Recaps he'd met had killed that night, they went into the Revel, into getting to know him and treating him like a friend with that knowledge. It seemed a strange counter, those ideas, but in the end he decided it was sensible. They were who they were, and it was part of it, like being his friend. "What do I need to do?"

Smiling warmly, Maeve took him in her arms and hugged him gently. Pulling back she took his hands and looked into his eyes intently. "May I see your pendant?" Curious, Harry slipped the black chain he'd received only a week before over his head and handed it to his godmother. "You see, this isn't just a stone, Harry. When I made this, I forged it from my blood."

Blinking down at the chill stone that normally sat like a bit of ice against his chest, Harry nodded, remembering how Rede had gaped when she saw it. "That's why Rede reacted that way. They could tell it was from you."

"Partly, maybe. This on it's own, is a promise from me to you – my blood, my oath to protect and take you as my own family. Will you complete the promise? Bind yourself to me in kind?"

Looking down at the small stone, Harry bit his lip and nodded. "I will."

"Give me your hand."

Reaching up with his right hand, Harry stilled from his anxiety when Maeve smiled at him, bringing his palm to her cheek. "It will sting. But only for a moment. Do you trust me?"

Harry nodded, a smile creeping along his lips. "I do."

With a jolt, Harry hissed but held still as Maeve _bit_ his palm, her teeth impossibly reaching the cup of it and scoring a red-welling gash there. Turning his hand over, she lay the sparkling blue stone into that small pool, speaking low and quietly in the Fey tongue. As she did, the stinging in his hand lessened, cooled, and finally stopped.

As the pain subsided, the stone pulsed once, a small flash of blue. Maeve tucked her hand over his, smiling up at Harry. "Just a moment more."

With a feeling like a string attached to his palm tugging slowly, till it tested it's anchor and stopped, Harry watched as an alternating pulse of blue and red light faintly spilled from their closed hands. Maeve, feeling the magic grow still released her hold and left the now complete stone in Harry's healed palm. He was too busy watching the stone swirl and settle to see Maeve lick the small trace of his blood off her lip delicately.

The originally clear blue stone had acquired a smoky inset, a wisp of deep maroon in it's depths that curled like a ribbon. In it's way, it resembled a flame with it's simple, single twist and curve within the stone. Picking the now-skin temperature pendant up, Harry saw upon his palm the faint outline of a scar, resembling a snowflake. When he turned his hand, the image was lost, only to return if he angled the light upon it properly. "Don't worry, it's not too bad."

Snapping his head up, Harry blushed, "No, no I wasn't worried about that. It was just surprising."

"Magic is a strange and wonderful thing," Maeve replied, feeling the strain of the many things she'd done that day, along with pulling herself so fully into Harry's world. Even for one such as her, doing so for so long was tiresome. Luckily, she had arranged a distraction for her changeling. "I have a surprise, Harry. Look."

As Harry draped the pendant back around his neck, Maeve led him to the Shack's door, where he gasped in surprise. Out on the walk and lawn to the Shack, Ixipti's company of flitting Fey, Rede, Raith and even a few others from Halloween waited. As the pair appeared, they all sketched a bow which Maeve returned briefly, before mobbing Harry with greetings.

Maeve stood aside, happy that her work bore such pleasant fruit. Harry would be hers – there was no doubt. Harry would also be his own, which in it's own way now, was an even more alluring distraction. With a smile and wave, she left her child to his friends, returning to her Carriage and the Middleworld, to rest and recoup from a weary day's work. She would visit Harry again soon. For now, he needed his friends, and to adjust to the other parts of his new world. They would help him, and now that he was further along in his maturation, it would only be easier.

Forgotten, Milly stirred and woke, rubbing her head free of the odd visions she'd dreamed. Curious why she'd fallen asleep, the little elf made to pop away, but with a start saw the host of wicked Fey about Harry, and made to remove them, only to have her attempt rebound and send her with a mighty jolt back to Hogwarts itself.

Milly would forget, thanks to the rather large lump on her head, what she'd seen when she woke. It was this small saving grace that let Harry have his reunion in peace. Or, perhaps it was fate. Such things are hard to separate, after all.

',',',',',','

Out in Hogsmeade, a few of the more sensitive folk noticed the change in the Shack, since Halloween. For years the old building had stood empty, and thankfully quiet. Wizard's long lives were to thank for people remembering Lupin and his full moons, but where hazy memory painted only occasional noise and fear, now there was something wholly different about the Shack.

It was as if around it had settled an invisible wall, which caught at their minds and painted wicked imaginings, which some thought to be a ward till their spells showed nothing. In truth it was a Fey glamor, cast by Maeve, to give Harry the impetus he needed to grow.

The Unseelie were the things of dark imaginings, and fear would support the needs of his growing Fey nature. Dumbledore's plan to spirit him off to some secluded and easily monitored prison worked against him marvelously, as nearly everyone in the town avoided the Shack for it's history, none brave enough to come close.

Harry and his Fey friends took to celebrating the night of their return, which despite the obscuring and witness foiling magics of Maeve, rekindled the ghost stories in the town about the ever-present Shrieking Shack. The beauty in that irony would have Maeve, and perhaps one day, Harry laughing when they looked back on it.

Despite his trust of Aberforth, Albus Dumbledore heard the odd rumors, starting from the elves no less, that the Shack was truly the lair of some evil, one that must be avoided and not spoken of.

This caused the elder Dumbledore more than a little concern. With Milly's behavior becoming more and more erratic, he felt that his assumption to be correct, and that there was little time for guesswork. Why Aberforth had not come to him himself with these things confused Albus, but he still trusted the man. Perhaps what the elves saw was something more subtle than wizarding eyes could see. He needed data... he needed evidence.

When Milly finally refused to go to the Shack at all, cutting Harry off from his supplies and the outside world, Dumbledore admitted it was time to see what was going on.

It was also that day, that he received an urgent letter from his erstwhile colleague Nicolas Flamel, requesting his aid. With rising concern, the Headmaster forgot about Harry's plight, and that of Hogsmeade. Relinquishing the castle to Minerva, he sped off to aid his long-time ally and friend. Time was of the essence.

There had been an attempt on the Philosopher's Stone.

',',',',',','


	6. Dancing Between Trees

**Dancing Between Trees**

_"There is an infinite potential in all things that think, dream and live. All the races have that vital spark in them. Your place, like all of my children, is to inspire. Hope, love, faith, fanaticism, lust, fear... it doesn't matter. Inspiration is what makes you at peace with the world, or fleeing it in terrible realization." -Maeve_

Three weeks was all he could take.

Harry hadn't been told so much directly, but Dumbledore had alluded that he shouldn't go out into the town nearby, Hogsmeade he had called it. The old man also neglected to give him a reason why – so of course by the time two weeks had passed since Maeve's visit, his new friends had talked him into a short trip out to see the sights.

Rede and Raith had taken to staying at the Shack, mostly due to Harry's invitation. They were good company, as he'd never had other people of any sort that seemed to enjoy his presence around as much, and fun to be around. They liked to play jokes on one another – Rede's were usually complex and somewhat involved, prone to spectacular failures, while Raith was more direct, and somewhat brutal in his humor. Having them around made the otherwise near exile of the Shack bearable.

As nice as their company was, there was still the shadow of Dudley in his mind, of what had to have happened, of what _could_ have happened... but try as he might, it didn't seem to make him sad. Oh, he understood that his cousin was dead – but it didn't affect him. What could he mourn? The fat, cruel, ill-tempered boy had made it his life's work to see Harry's days filled with as much unpleasantness as possible. Of course, Dudley wasn't the blood-chilling monster Vernon in a rage could be, but every time he came back to memories of his cousin, he was left feeling blank. Not happy, or sad, or angry, or anything.

Dudley it seemed, just didn't matter to him, really. He wasn't terribly surprised by that fact. He'd never mattered to the pig in a wig either.

Grumbling at his circling thoughts, Harry decided what he needed was to get out. Harry wanted out of the Shack, and figured the Redcaps could use a day out as well.

So decided, early the next morning he pulled stores out of his pantry, now filled discreetly by Milly so she didn't have to actually come around him, and began breakfast. He wanted a good start on the day of their outing. Though he'd never liked slaving over a stove for his aunt or uncle, the solitude and separation, the boredom of the Shack had made him appreciate the little things he could do to spend time and attention. It didn't hurt that the sibling Redcaps were appreciative of his efforts, and lauded him daily for appeasing their rather bottomless appetites.

"Today's the day, eh?" Raith mumbled his question over the brim of a cup, shooting a glance between Harry and Rede. After getting to know the two for more than a few hours, Harry had come to understand their relationship, how the twins behaved somewhat better. Raith was willing to do whatever was decided on without question or concern – provided Rede gave the go-ahead. Rede was calculating, a planner, but didn't generally have the motivation to dash ahead with plans – without Raith. It made them inseparable, as without one another the two seemed to just stop functioning.

That factor was the easiest way to tell when they were quarreling, or plotting against one another. After a rather nasty tumble into the basement at the premature tripping of a prank by Raith, Harry had learned to read the two for his own safety.

Rede nodded, but looked to Harry. This still settled oddly with him, as he'd never been crucial – or even considered – in most plans and ideas before moving to the Shack and being in constant company with the siblings. She often deferred to him, in the actual end of any ideas involving the lot of them, something he happily blamed on Maeve's influence.

Smirking, Harry plucked Ixipti off his shoulder, the tiny Fey giving an indignant squawk at being hoisted around by her hips. "What do you think, Ixi? Shall we go into town and see what there is to see?"

Ixipti glowered and thrashed about, causing the three to laugh at her plight. With a huff she crossed her arms and stuck her tongue out at Harry, "We go," she muttered, flailing her wings angrily one last time. "Now, let go!"

With a giggle, Harry sat her on his mess of hair, only half meaning any complaints when she took to tugging at the tufts there angrily in retribution. Murmuring and settling herself a perch, the little Fey settled down, after demanding the middle bite of his toast. He had no doubts he'd be shedding crumbs for the rest of the day, but only smiled.

The Redcaps finished their meals, and Harry set the dishes aside to clean later. Since Milly's quiet mutiny, cleaning was his task as well, sometimes an activity that he shared with Ixipti. She'd shown an interesting talent with wind, summoning tiny cyclones that gathered up dust and swept it out open windows. These new talents seemed to thrill her, so he left her to them, while he managed the larger tasks. Occasionally, if Milly popped by while he was out of the kitchen to restock the pantry, he'd find his dishes cleaned and sorted, but it was a rare thing.

Despite all his efforts, without Dumbledore there the elf simply didn't abide his presence at all. He didn't know whether to be offended, irritated, or curious, but there was little he could do regardless. She was wickedly hard to catch and often would be in and out before he even knew of her presence. Ixi seemed to have a sense when she was about, but obstinately refused to deal with the elf anymore than Milly would deal with him.

It was rather frustrating, and so Harry gave it up as pointless.

Mid-November was a chill time of year, more so now that he seemed to be further north. He was quietly grateful to Dumbledore for insisting on him getting a bundle of new clothes, warmer things to keep the near-freezing winds and autumnal cold at bay. With the approach of winter's heart soon, the sun had stopped being as prominent, and now the days had grown appropriately shorter. He figured less than nine hours of sun, but didn't have a clock to measure. This meant he had more time with Ixi and the small Fey that still frolicked on the Shack's grounds, but also meant he needed to bundle up to go out.

At least he'd assumed so. Muffler tucked about his neck, heavy jacket and thick pants, with clunky shoes that made the Redcaps giggle as he stomped about were discarded for a light robe and similar pants, a simple pullover underneath with lighter boots after he'd walked out and found his breath hard to draw. Last year he'd nearly gotten frostbite from Dudley's cast-offs, but now the chill and cold seemed less biting to him. If he were to be honest, it was invigorating.

Shrugging off his new liking for the cold as growing up, Harry collected the Redcaps – who still wore their rough, thick canvas and leathers and massive iron boots, and started on his way to the village proper.

His Shack had a long, roughly graveled path that led to the main street that bisected the town he'd seen once, walking through. The hill it rested on sloped down gently, and he could easily see through the disheveled hedges and small trees that had gone red and amber and rich brown in the coming winter, the distant roof of an inn. There hadn't been much energy in him, the last time he'd been out in Hogsmeade, so today he made up for that lack by taking in all he could.

Where the Shack's path met that which identified itself as West High Street he saw a small marker, not on his drive but across the way by the inn or pub showing directions. To his right and west was Hogwarts, the east being Hogsmeade and the village proper. Harry started on the way but halted, hesitating and looking to the Redcaps curiously. "Wait a moment," he called, ducking into the hedges back along the Shack's property with them in tow. "Did you um. That is to say, when we met first you were confused on me seeing you, so when we go into town..."

"Oh," Rede blinked, eyes brightening. "Right, after the Revel we're able to ah, be seen. If we want to be. Usually we don't but it also means we get to hang around with you a bit."

"And you seem to like our company, so who are we to refuse?" Raith quipped, causing Harry to chuckle. In truth it relieved him more than a little, as he didn't want to ignore them, and he'd not like to make his first impression by talking to empty air or holding conversations with imaginary folk. "Though, we can't do it constantly yet, it's somewhat exhausting," Raith added, to which Rede nodded.

Harry looked up as Ixipti leaned down, perching off his crown and staring at him, "I'm hiding," she said simply, taking a moment to wrinkle her nose at him in mock indignation. Laughing, he handed up a treat for her, knowing she knew he had it stashed away. Small candies had managed to be included in his pantry in the first few days, and he'd hoarded them, till he noted Ixi eyeing them like he'd seen Vernon do to the neighbor's new car.

She'd been absolutely spastic the first night she'd tried a caramel. He figured with her needing to stay perched and quiet, a candy was compensation enough. She seemed to agree.

The town itself wasn't exceptionally large, there being stores in equal share with houses bordering the way as far as he could see, till it curved off to the north past what looked to be a post office. Behind them, he could see more buildings, what he figured were homes or storage, or even more businesses.

Though he'd spent precious little time in any kind of shopping areas, the thing that grabbed his attention and made him gape was how utterly strange all the buildings looked. He was sure, had he tried to mimic some of their layouts with cards or sticks or blocks, his results would likely fall apart before he could roof them. His Shack was a little off as well, feeling somewhat top heavy with it's overhanging upper stories, but it at least didn't seem to be the display in improbable before him.

Store fronts paid no attention to space or shape, being oblong, or having tilted corners, and one even seemed to loom from an upper story out into the roadway from above. Blinking and looking about with his mouth open, Harry took a moment to pinch himself, just to make sure. With a grin he looked to his company, seeing them looking about with less wonder, and more simple curiosity. A few other people milled about, but were further down the street, and so far were little more than indistinct figures in the distance.

Rede and Raith peered curiously into the nearby shops, as Harry seemed to flit from one to the other, pointing things out to them with glee. Most were incomprehensible to him, and their signage even more curious, but he took it in stride. The nearby post office they'd spied just entering the town seemed to be the border of the business area proper, with few houses being visible from this point onward.

Though Harry had seen a post office before, this place confused him mightily. From the outside it looked more like a strange barn. An upper series of windows were in constant use by incoming and outgoing owls, a stream of which that seemed to veer off to the east and Hogwarts, if he were to guess. It was still early in the day, which Harry guessed to be the reason for the busy bustle that centered on the building, but what confused him, other than the birds and owls, were the lack of mailboxes.

As he watched, a person who walked up took a rather large letter, tucked it into a round tube, then handed it to a nearby teller. That person in turn took a few coins from the first, waved a stick – wand Harry corrected himself, over the tube, and then turned to an owl. Harry wasn't really as big a fan of birdwatching as his uncle, but he did remember reading somewhere that owls were nighttime creatures, yet here the owl simply took the tube in it's claws and patiently let the the clerk say a few words. Then, it was off an up and out the window with the rest, which Harry noted, all had a parcel of some kind, some affixed by ribbon, some clutched in a claw.

Dubious, Harry pinched himself again. Rubbing at his now-smarting arm, the young man watched as the owls continued their curious work. The Redcaps had seen his plight it seemed, and were waiting when he turned around, "What? When?"

Chuckling at his blatant confusion, Rede put an arm over his shoulder, pointing, "You know, Harry, this is a magical town, right?"

Magic. Right. Doorways in walls that didn't have them, a fairy godmother, and a pixie on his head. He really needed to stop being surprised. "Right, still a bit new," he sighed, brow furrowing as he looked around with sharper eyes.

Magical town, meant magical people. As he scanned the near passerby, he tried to pick at the few details he could see, remembering the old man Dumbledore and his sometimes odd affectations. Long winter coats resolved themselves to being simpler, long robes. Here and there he could see wands being used, where before he'd just seen excited gestures. An occasional house elf scurried here or there, as some storefronts literally welcomed new customers of their own accord.

Quietly, as not to seem too out of place, Harry walked to the lee of a store and bent his head toward Raith, "What do you two know about this kind of town?"

"Not terribly much," the Redcap admitted, shrugging. "We're still young, and haven't been beyond the Middleworld's borders long."

"Wizarding society is a lot like... well not to be too strange, but it's like your fairytales," Rede added with a slight blush. Casting her eyes about, she leaned and sank down to sit on the cold, cobbled alleyway, the boys following suit. Harry motioned for her to go on, as Raith settled by the alley entrance, watching to tell his sister if she should be quiet. "We hear a lot about it, but don't get to see much. Not at our age.

"I suppose the older Fey, and the Courts know a lot," the young Redcap murmured, shaking her head slightly. "There are rumors of this and that, hearsay and exaggerations. I guess for what we know, it's somewhat limited."

Harry considered this a moment, brow furrowed. "Well, I'll take whatever you can give me, really. I'm no better off."

Raith nodded back to her, and Rede began to speak, head tilted, "Well, magic in humans is something that works through families, or that happens because there is a concentration of it near someone before they're born," she said, but looked quizzical. "I'm not sure really. Mostly I think it's family. Anyway, magicians or wizards and witches all use wands, well do now, but before they didn't have them. There's a story where a wood nymph who fell in love with a traveler from the far deserts gave him a piece of her tree when he left to return home, and one day found that he could work great magic with it. So now they use wands," Rede looked a bit taken with this idea, and Harry raised a brow, chuckling.

Blushing, Rede went on, "Er, right. As for towns and such... well the owls you saw are how letters are delivered. Owls that spend a lot of time around magic tend to have young that are magical, and able to be trained or simply know how the post works."

"Strange," Harry murmured, watching as a distant few dark figures winged their way into the sky. "So different from things I'm used to."

"I'm sure that will be the trend," Rede agreed, smiling. "Our world is even more different. Magical and non-magical people at least are similar. In the Fey lands, the forms we take are often part of who and what we are."

Harry blinked at her, thinking to a few glimpses of Raith and his sister's teeth, of Maeve's wings and color and chill. He remembered the host of different Fey from Halloween, as well. "Is there anything important I need to know?"

"Promises," Raith prompted, startling the two. Rede nodded emphatically to agree.

"You have to be careful with promises," her tone had gone quiet, and serious so Harry leaned closer to listen. "When Fey make promises, it changes who we are to suit. Fey are magic, so making a binding between magic and idea changes the magic. Wizards are the same, only they aren't as... tied? Tied. To magic," lapsing into thought, she turned to her brother, the two sharing a look. Harry had become used to their silent conversations, and leaned back to wait. Rede nodded once and sighed, "I don't know what would happen if you broke a promise. Being a changeling isn't something we know a lot about. I do know that when a wizard makes a promise, they usually swear on their magic, as it's the most important thing to them. If they break that promise, magic punishes them."

"How?"

Rede fidgeted nervously, before shrugging. "It leaves them. Sometimes it sends out a ripple that calls... _things_, to balance the debt."

Harry regarded the young Fey intently. "Things like Redcaps?"

"Sometimes," Raith replied quietly, looking back at the young man intently. "There are worse things."

For some reason the way the two had spoken of themselves irritated Harry. Pushing off the wall he lurched to standing and huffed, "Really, I don't see anything wrong with you two."

Rede blinked up, her bronze eyes wide, "But we're Redcaps."

"What are Redcaps then? What makes you so bad?" Harry challenged, bracing his hands on his hips, mouth drawn to an annoyed line.

Raith answered, seeing Rede's growing anxiety, "Redcaps are hunters. We are drawn to desperation. Winter is strong with us, as in her our idea was born."

Those words struck something in Harry, and his demeanor softened. When Raith spoke of winter, he knew that the Redcap meant Maeve. So the Redcaps were... sighing he realized the odd connections between Fey confused him more than made sense. "What do you mean? That Maeve is like a leader?"

Raith nodded, as Rede seemed to grow more agitated. "Harry, remember how I asked you be careful of promises," Rede asked quietly, curling her fingers about themselves slowly. When she looked up, it startled him to see her normally easy, unconcerned expression bent with worry. He nodded and she continued, quieter, "I'd almost ask you to promise not to think ill of us if we explained, but I can't. I can't ask... _you_, to do that. We like being your friend. We worry that this might change it."

He made to reply, to deny that but she held up a hand, stalling him. "Hunger. Redcaps are the hunger of winter, made real. We hunt those that break promises in greed to return their greed on them," Rede whispered, arms now wrapped around her drawn up knees. Raith abandoned his station, to settle beside his sister, wrapping an arm across her shoulder.

Mind whirring, little things suddenly clicking into place – the sharp teeth, their enthusiasm at meals... even Halloween. Harry blinked owlishly a moment at his friends. Then he bent down and sat on Rede's other side, mirroring Raith. "This explains your appetites at least."

With a choked laugh, Rede looked up and sniffled a moment, as Raith grinned at him. "Look, why would this bother me? Dudley?" When she nodded and Raith looked away, he sighed. "Don't. Just... that doesn't matter," he said quietly, giving voice to his earlier thoughts, finding they strangled him on the way past his lips. "He... it doesn't matter. He was never family. That was never home."

Taking a breath he felt as if bands, heavy and weary, broke free of him and left him lighter. Smiling suddenly, he pulled Rede and Raith up beside him as he stood. "C'mon. We've wasted enough day moping and talking about serious things."

"What do you want to do, then?" Rede asked, dragged after as Harry charged out of the alley with a gleam in his eye.

"I saw a candy store. I want to see how this hunger fares against magical chocolate."

Chuckling, Raith clapped the young wizard on the shoulder, and followed along after his sputtering and indignant sister. He noted Ixipti's rapt attention as well and laughed outright.

',',',',',','

"Why are they shying away from us?" Harry asked, irritation climbing as another young mother and child scurried away, not bothering to meet his eyes.

Raith sighed, but didn't answer, looking to his sister and meeting her eyes. Reaching up to run a hand under her ever-present maroon cap, she pointed to a small table off the roadside, and the three took a seat. Once they'd gotten settled, Ixipti flitted off Harry's head and onto the arranged bouquet there, gleefully dismembering a flower till it was properly comfortable for her to lounge in and maul her oversized caramel from.

Rede shot her brother an irritated glare, but realized she was better at expressing herself than the taciturn Fey. "Are you familiar with instinct?"

Harry shrugged, nodding slightly. "You feel but don't know."

She hemmed a bit but nodded, feeling the drastic simplification good enough really. "Magical people, even normal people who've been around us a long time, tend to pick up on things. Their instincts tell them that there's something about us."

His brow knit and the annoyance from earlier still clear on his face, Harry's question was blurted out, "Us?"

"Fey," Raith replied, deflating his sister's retort and leaving her huffing and with her mouth working silently for a handful of breaths.

Considering this, and what they'd said earlier on the nature of Redcaps, Harry tried to make the connection but failed. "So people avoid us for no reason, then? And 'us'? I didn't think I counted."

"Maeve adopted you," Rede said quietly, Harry's eyes widening as he remembered what she'd said about promises, and how they change things. How they change Fey, and how she didn't know how a changeling like him would be affected. Harry found himself somewhat nervous. "And they have reason," She continued, "Fey are reason enough. Our presence... affects people. Even when we mask it to the best of our skill, just being what we are is enough to make those who think and dream react."

Harry could have sworn some of her words had been capitalized, in that last few moments. "What do you mean, think and dream? I don't understand," he replied, feeling lost again in this new world in which he'd been thrown. First magic, now some kind of weird repulsion he just happened to have just because he was him. Maeve's words, about losing some of his humanity to gain equal footing with his Fey nature weren't forgotten of course, but to see something so fundamental and out of his control at work bothered him greatly.

Though she was worried on his reaction, Rede could see this was weighing on Harry, and tried to find a way to explain, soften the idea so he wasn't so bitter. "Think about it like this. People... well almost _everything_, but we'll start with people for simplicity's sake, have emotions, strong impulses that guide and shape them. Following along?"

Nodding, Harry pulled his own caramel out, breaking off a third and passing the rest to Rede and Raith, to which they smiled. A happy distraction in hand, Rede continued, "Well, it's a lot like... oh, a bell!" Seeing Harry's confused look she went on, more animated, "When you ring a bell, if it's near another one, it'll start to chime as well."

Having never been around bells like the ones she was speaking of, Harry just nodded woodenly. He did have an idea what she meant though, as the common thread between the bells was sound, so she had to be thinking of something common between what Fey were, and people had in them. "So, you mean the ideas that make up – er, I guess that's the right idea – that make up Fey, effect people? Make them feel something akin to them?"

"Sort of," Raith replied, his usual reticence put aside for the moment. "Think of the Courts. Fey are separated by their ideals. Seelie are the positive, Unseelie the negative."

Seelie. Unseelie. He'd have to start writing all this down, as he knew there's be no way he'd remember it all, the town and now a lesson in Fey. "So, I'm guessing Maeve and you and, well me, are all Unseelie?" Raith nodded his assent. "Does this mean people will just... hate me?"

Rede blinked and shook her head quickly, "No! No not at all. It just means we tend to make them uneasy. Their memories turn to darker things, or things associated with us."

"So," Harry, tried to put together all she'd said and rubbed at his temple. "The reason some of the people we've run into get edgy and strange is because we're Unseelie?"

Sighing, Rede shrugged, "Sort of. It's all in perspective really – I guess the weaker the mind the easier for them to just fall into the ideas. We can overcome it, dampen it, or mask it with glamors," shooting Raith a significant look, the two winced as one. "I think we need to talk to your godmother soon."

"Me too," Harry griped. He knew that what he'd done, binding himself to Maeve would change things, but this seemed a little bit more than he'd bargained for. It looked as if he'd traded a house of people that thought he was strange and unnatural for an entire town of them. Brilliant.

',',',',',','

The rest of their exploration was cut short, as Harry's supply of money had dwindled. So had his patience for getting stared at. He didn't have a lot of either really after the talk with the siblings, and as for money, he only had what he'd been left from Dumbledore, but he figured cheering up Rede after he started a dreary conversation or two with food was good enough reason. Regardless of lacking money they made their way around and stared, if not shopped.

Harry almost tried to drag them into the clothing store, Gladrags it was named, but they waved him off. The comment that they never changed their clothes was met with amusement, as they reminded him things for them were different. Narrowing his eyes, Harry realized Ixipti never changed her little sundress either. Still, he liked the look of some of the clothes inside, and decided one day he'd go in.

Further down the lane, he found a store that set him to swearing, causing people around him to mutter and stare more than usual, as he stomped around irritated. Scrivenshafts, a bookstore by trade, sat in front of him, mocking his empty pockets. Harry was far from an academic at school, mostly due to the threat of punishment for doing better than his recently dead cousin, but curiosity and his idle state at the Shack combined with a nearby bookstore simply seemed a match made, to him. "I need to find a way to get more money," he grouched to Rede, who chuckled and guided him back out of the small lane, and away from the strange shop with the tinkling music and gaudy décor further down.

It was while they were chatting about money that the three and a pixie crossed into High Street, that Harry stumbled into the back of an elderly man. Stuttering an apology, he reached out to help the man up but was waved off with a course grunt.

"I'm fine, but you need to watch your step, Potter," the man said, turning so his profile and a glinting blue eye faced them.

Harry drew back, blinking rapidly at the man in confusion. "Excuse me?"

The old man chuckled darkly, and pointed toward a nearby entranceway. "Go inside."

Looking between the man, the Redcaps who had moved up beside him and were favoring the man with blank stares, and the dingy, dark doorway that sat half open that had been indicated, Harry shook his head hastily, "Sorry, but no thanks."

"It wasn't a request," the man snapped out, drawing himself up and turning to the three children. Though he'd seemed hunched and frail when they'd bumped into one another and initially traded words, the man before him wasn't at all that image. He wasn't tall, he wasn't broad, and certainly his white hair and craggy, wrinkled features didn't summon the word 'handsome' to mind at all. No, the presence he had was something else, and Harry didn't like it.

Knowing the Redcaps were beside him, Harry stood his ground, staring back at the man who glowered before him. "Who are you?"

A very slight smile cracked along the man's lips, etching furrows in his tanned skin. "Your minder. Aberforth Dumbledore," Harry's eyes narrowed at the name, a gesture that wasn't missed by the old man. "Get inside, before I send you inside.

"And tell your friends to go back home. You'll be out past dark – I'm sure their parents don't want them in a place like this," the man's mirth was apparent as he trudged on, walking just inside the doorway. Harry could see the man fingering what had to be a wand and gritted his teeth angrily.

Turning he saw equal anger on the faces of the Redcaps. Raith's mouth opened and a disdainful spit of the man's name came out, "Aberforth?"

"Dumbledore?" Rede finished, layering as much venom as she could, matching her sibling.

Harry looked between the two and sighed, his anger deflating. He was living in a house belonging apparently to this man's family, and as ill-tempered as the old goat seemed, Dumbledore did warn him someone in the town would be around to keep an eye on him. Reaching up and settling a stray tuft of hair, he wondered why it was three weeks later that the man finally caught up to him, or rather ran into him – literally.

"Quite the lousy minder," he muttered darkly, his recently uncertain frame of mind rather dimmed with the prospect of spending what was promised to be well past evening in such a disagreeable man's company, in an equally disagreeable place. "Do you two want to just go back? I don't know who this man is, but I should see what he wants."

Rede shook her head slowly, "No. Lets just all go back. If he wants to talk to you, let him come. I don't like that place, and I think Raith and I like the idea of leaving you with him less." Her brother simply nodded, keeping his eyes locked on the man still waiting by the doorway, looking bored but obviously with his own eyes on the three.

Grumbling about trading one set of foul minders for another, Harry looked over the pub that the man was waiting outside of. The garish sign proclaimed it the Hog's Head, the standard painted there a gruesome image that set a cold weight in his stomach. For all his time with the Redcaps, he'd recalled the dream from Halloween, but never really felt a connection to it. Never had the gravity of the images strike him as they did just them.

He didn't see a hog's head, laying severed on a silver platter, but Dudley's leering face, his dirty yellow hair stained as it soaked in the boy's pooled blood. With a jerk he drew back, and like a flock of birds the three flew from High Street and the irritated calls of the old man who they left behind.

',',',',',','

Life catches up with everyone, was something one could often hear the stolid barman mutter as he went about his work. Aberforth knew it was true of Albus, as much as himself. He'd turned his back on family twice – once with Ariana, once with Albus, and in that he blamed the loneliness he felt was his due. Life catches up – and sometimes runs you down in the street. Apparently Harry Potter shared those notions.

He's been observing the young boy Harry off and on for days, disillusioned and simply watching from a distance. What he'd seen had disturbed him more than a little.

Aberforth had no illusions to his brother's plans for the young man out at the Shack. That he was ensconced inside a magical community spoke of something dire happening to Albus' plans – the man only trusted very few, and this was far out of his usual methods. Albus was addicted to secrets, to mysteries. To put something important out in the light of day was all but blasphemy.

The younger Dumbledore was only partially privy to Albus' plans, at least in this regard. He was aware of his running roughshod over the will and requests of the Potters to further some grand scenario, but not the why. Harry was key to something, and considering the child's early christening as the Boy Who Lived, it brought to mind if Albus' plans related to his own vanquished dark lord, or the child's. Aberforth, were he a gambling man, would wager on the latter.

Expecting a fairly unstable, unsettled and equally damaged youth considering his apparent history, the abbreviated one Albus had given him at least, Aberforth had watched and waited, expecting the boy to buckle up and make the foray out into the town after a week of his habitation in the Shack.

Instead, he seemed content to muddle about the lawns, giggling and going on sometimes like he were talking to things or people that Aberforth knew weren't there. Detection spells for other disillusioned wizards, minor temporary wards to track if anyone passed up the walk, even a listening charm to hear if maybe he were simply missing something. He didn't have the materials or access to the Shack to discreetly place permanent spells, so this would have to suffice. Regardless of their nature, he still observed on occasion to make sure what they were telling him was correct.

They told him nothing.

The boy was mad.

When after three weeks living there one of the wards he had left fired telling him that Potter was leaving the Shack. Aberforth had all but thrown his rag at the single dowdy barmaid he employed and stalked out of the pub, apparating to the small stand of trees he'd often used as cover. He'd been more than slightly shocked to see not only the young boy he'd been briefed on, but two other children as well, turning down the lane toward Hogsmeade. Brother and sister, the two didn't resemble anyone he'd seen before, and frankly, he didn't like the look of them at all. Something about them set his hackles up. All of them.

Aberforth stalked along with the children as they made their meandering way about town, watching as they watched and took in the sights. He'd heard the saying, raising children was two parts observation, and maybe, _maybe_ one part intervention. He was content to let them tell him all he wanted to learn about themselves.

Afternoon was dying spectacularly in the west, beckoning him on as he turned the corner across from the post office, just out of range to hear the youngsters talking. Cursing silently, Aberforth noted the boy, the brother, watching an alley and tried to cast a charm there to listen, but was foiled by the wards around the other buildings. He couldn't get closer either, or risk his disillusion spell wavering around house wards as well. Growling under his breath, Aberforth bided his time, knowing the three would give him something more than rumor to work with, and soon.

That Hogsmeade was a small, insular community for all it's nearness a school was a benefit to the task given to him by Dumbledore, one he'd eagerly exploited. The week since Harry's arrival had been rife with rumor and murmurings among the folk of Hogsmeade, and it was this as much as any direct contact that Aberforth used in deciding how to approach the young Potter Scion. Anyone that knew the nuances of society, knew that rumor and hearsay are the stream-of-thought of society. As a barkeep, Aberforth considered himself the dredge of that river – taking up the substance of it, and finding the few gleaming things to be saved.

So far, what he'd dredged had not been very reassuring. It complemented his personal opinions so far, nicely.

The tempting storefront of Honeydukes was to his right, as he pondered his brother's actions, and what murmurings he'd value from the small town. It was no secret that Albus had brought the child to the Shack, in fact it was likely common knowledge by the morning after, and definitely one by the following night. Aberforth wondered at Dumbledore's reasoning on this, considering his past. To change his mode so much, in so short a time, truly told at the man's strained mind. Were he not as ensconced in his own ideas as Albus, he'd offer to help him with whatever was ailing him, but past and history were hard foundations to rebuild, after nearly eight decades of distance. The gulf of that yawned between them, and Aberforth was not keen to try and breach it on a whim.

Shortly the three children broke cover at a run, startling him into dashing aside as they nearly careened into his skulking form on their way to the sweets shop. Cursing youth and his own seeming senility in taking up this fool's errand, Aberforth reset his cover and waited, knowing that the store wards would rip his disillusionment off like so much cobweb were he to enter.

Luck would not be on his side this day.

When the three had seemed intent to talk again, they chose the one storefront that used privacy wards to shield their patrons from listening ears, to set a more relaxed mood.

When he tried to get close, his cloaking spell shattered with a sound like glass doing the same, and he had to spend five minutes explaining to the store owner next door that no, he had no intent to steal his gaudy stock, and yes, have a magical oath to that effect and bloody bugger off.

Finally he'd managed to get into a decent position to monitor the lot, when his bar's wards started chiming about dark creatures. He'd only just dropped his disillusion when the boy himself had nearly run him down in the street.

Aberforth wasn't one to look a gift hippogriff in the beak. He'd told the boy to meet him inside his tavern, knowing the place was not at all a child's first choice to enter. Aside from his comment to lose his companions, he figured the place's own reputation would see them off. The Hog's Head wasn't the cheery, warm and inviting place the Three Broomsticks down the way was. Oh, he liked Rosmerta – she did good work, and he liked to keep abreast of her own place in the town. The Three Broomsticks was the foil to Hog's Head, keeping the lighter crowd's attention so his own establishment could do the work of skimming the darker like a sieve. It was a very conductive working relationship, and one he and Rosmerta enjoyed and encouraged.

Instead of doing as he was told, the insolent little brat had fled with his friends and left a fuming Aberforth to figure out what had tripped his ward.

Oh no, he didn't like the boy at all. He liked the idea of dealing with the boy on his own terms at the Shack less.

',',',',',','

Bright and bloody early the next day, Aberforth stomped down High Street, scattering morning shoppers and gossips about him like pigeons.

Passing the final line of shops between the town proper and the outskirts before the station, Aberforth drew to his right, staying in the mild shadow of the brief hedge and tree row. The greenery separated the Shack's grounds from the town, until it's own walk joined the main street. The Shack itself had fallen out of the common mind of the people, becoming a curious anomaly in their history. The place was built recently, in the late nineteen seventies by Albus, but the funds had not been his. It was the quiet donations from the Potter and Black coffers, something not on the books unless you happened to have a Phoenix medallion in your jewelery collection that saw the Shack raised. Aberforth didn't know who was contracted, but they seemed as daft as most magical architects, considering the old house's foibles. Give him four straight walls and a ceiling to suit. Flying buttresses and overhanging floors were for the mad.

Due to the curious inhabitant the Shack had been built for, the lowest level of the building lacked windows or doors, with the upper stories resting on buttresses that made the entire place look a bit top heavy. At two and a half stories, with the uppermost being a hint of attic if the window in a cornice were any indication, it was a rather tall building to stand on it's own, out away from other homes. It carried itself well, was made of handsome woods and stone that seemed tasteful, the upper, overhanging floors with wide, shuttered windows.

For all it's charm, the fresh feel of it's recent building considering usual magical dwellings, it had an ominous feel. Aberforth remembered countless times he'd walked past this very building on the way to the lake, and never taking note of the deep shadows that shrouded the lower story. He'd never given a second thought to the almost staring, lidded look of the upper windows, staring out at the road he walked. He almost preferred them boarded shut. Were he to try and give a word to the feeling the Shack gave him, it would be predatory. It felt sunken, shying from the afternoon's light. Waiting.

Shrugging off his pointless musings, the man walked up to the house and rapped soundly on the wall, where Albus had instructed him. He didn't have long to wait, as a door seemed to carve itself out of boles and the grain of the wood, looking perfectly obvious once it opened, revealing a glaring Harry Potter.

Scrawny, was Aberforth's first face to face impression. As the child regarded him, he returned the open assessment, noting the young boy's quick eyes, upright posture, and a sense that he'd be perfectly able to go from idly standing to rabbiting off at a change in the wind. After a moment more of contemplating the boy's hair – didn't seem to pay it much attention, Aberforth grunted, cocking his head toward the room. "Going to invite me in, or close the door? Make up your mind."

Startled out of his thoughts, Harry backed up, indicating the former, albeit reluctantly. Regardless, he hadn't said a word of greeting to the younger Dumbledore. Aberforth didn't dwell on it – rudeness was a staple in his day. "So Albus tells me he's set you up here. How are you getting along?"

Harry blinked at the man owlishly, considering his answer carefully. The man did bear a remarkable resemblance to the old wizard Dumbledore who'd claimed him from the police. Their faces were similar now that he had a moment to actually take the man in, and they seemed of an age – whatever time had passed for them had bleached their hair equally enough. Where the Headmaster had a kind if somewhat sad look about him though, this man was sharp, almost angry. In it's way, it reminded him of Petunia, and set him on edge. The man's gruff, blunt question only sealed his impression, putting Harry on the defensive.

"I'm getting along fine," he stated without inflection deciding there to speak no more than needed, and only if he couldn't avoid the question entirely. He did have a question for the man he felt was relevant to the moment, though, "What brings you here, Mr. Dumbledore?"

"No 'mister'," Aberforth curtly answered, making Harry straighten in surprise. He reevaluated the child, noting that reaction. He'd been raised polite, in a fashion. Likely his rudeness then was just unfamiliarity. "Not fond of the address is all," Aberforth added, softening the tone of his words. "Just call me Aberforth, or Abe, or Aber. It doesn't matter."

Nodding, Harry relaxed slightly at the man's explanation. He still didn't like him much, his gruff attitude and hawkish eyes, but the informality put him mildly at ease. "I can call Milly for a bit of tea if you'd like – the Shack is without a kitchen," Harry replied in way of welcome, and to mask his own unease, such as it was.

Aberforth looked about at the mention of a kitchen, and it's lack. He'd not been inside the place before, and the pitiful furnishings and condition of the place spoke of it's long disuse. Albus had mentioned that there was at least one house elf placed to assist the boy, but the dust and ramshackle condition almost made that seem a lie. Still, this 'Milly' fit the idea. "That'd be fine," he mumbled, taking out his wand and transfiguring a broken chair into something more comfortable. The sharp look his magic use got him wasn't missed.

As Harry called for Milly, he wondered at the man's presence. It had been almost three weeks since Dumbledore had left him here, and in that time he'd had no visitors. Maeve's words that Albus would likely not be by any time in the near future seemed to be holding true, but then there was this man. Obviously a 'Dumbledore' as well, Harry wondered if he were to take over being his minder, as the man had claimed out in the street the day before. Historically, Albus didn't seem the type to pay a close eye to him, so it would make sense to send another.

Milly arrived with her usual groan and whine, asking with a reedy voice what Harry needed. Making their time in the same room as short as possible, he snapped off a request for tea and snacks for two, and a dinner in an hour, hoping the man would see the hint easy enough and not stay. Harry also figured it easier to just ask for it all at once, and spare the skittish, cringing elf his obviously frightening presence.

Again Aberforth was narrowing his eyes at the young boy. The elf's behavior... with a pop Milly returned, and he sat aside his pondering of the creature for later. As he settled in the chair he'd transfigured, Harry simply sprawled across a splintery bench, looking for all the world as if it were the most comfortable thing. Their eyes met, as the two taciturn individuals sipped their tea.

It was to be a very long day.

',',',',',','

It wasn't the last time he'd run into Aberforth, but it was the last time the man came to the Shack. He knew the man was keeping an eye on the Shack, and by association him, and didn't really care. It did prove to be a good test of the illusions Maeve had weaved into his new home.

He assumed Aberforth left this gaudily transformed chair as some kind of gesture, but it irked him more than anything. He liked Maeve's changes. They were another of her gifts to him, and it mattered to him greatly what she thought and did. That she'd gone to so much effort for his sake settled a warm ember in his chest, something he'd not felt before. He imagined it was what it felt to have a family, someone that cared for you, for no other reason than they could.

Aberforth's chair stayed sat away from the main floor for a week, till his magic faded and it resumed it's simpler, dual nature.

Ixipti, the most sensitive of the Fey he knew, had alerted him to someone actually approaching the Shack on the old man's visit, not something he'd expected. It had been some time already with no one doing so, and in that time Harry had come to assume the people of the nearby town simply didn't care or weren't curious. He'd sent the Redcaps off just in case, and taken note of Ixi's skill in detecting visitors.

Ixipti had of course refused, settling on his head stubbornly.

Afterward Harry found he was curious what the man had taken from their meeting. He barely spoke, only asked a few questions, and even then it was the barest of concern he could make out from the man. He seemed too on edge for more than cursory conversation. Aberforth had asked him about his living conditions, if he was comfortable, how he was getting along. Harry had used Milly as his brace, an excuse to how he got food and supplies. It was true enough – the elf stocked his pantry, Harry just didn't mention that he prepared what food was eaten.

',',',',',','

As the month drew on Harry noted his Fey, as he taken to thinking of the Redcaps and the smaller kin out in the grounds that rarely came inside now, getting more anxious and restless. Finally tiring of Raith's pacing, he called the sibling on it, startling the Fey so badly he fell down. Sighing, Harry helped him into a chair, "What's going on? All of you are nervous enough to rattle the shutters."

Reaching up and scratching at the back of his head, Raith regarded the young boy, clearly chagrined. "Sorry. The moon's full tonight."

The simple answer set Harry to blinking in confusion. "What does that have to do with all you and Rede and Ixi being so out of sorts? She's never acted this way."

Hearing her voice, Raith's sister stepped down from the upstairs rooms the two had claimed. "The small Fey are just energetic with the recent season change," she explained, settling with a yawn on the long couch that took up most of a wall. "As for us, it's the first full moon as a true Unseelie. It's... well."

Harry waited as Rede hemmed and hedged with words, till Raith sighed and spared her, "Celebration. Like a graduation. We go out and enjoy our newly allowed activities."

Nodding, Harry did wonder about that. "So you've been feeling as couped up as me then?"

"Oh by the Lady _yes_," Rede commiserated, letting out a tense breath, flopping back on the cushions with a muffled thump. "The Middleworld was vast compared to this place – no offense Harry."

"None taken," the young boy shrugged, but warmed to the topic. "What will you two be doing?"

Looking to one another, the siblings shared one of their silent asides, causing Harry to huff and settle back in his chair. He really didn't mind it, but it made their conversations somewhat one sided at times. Rede turned to face him, smiling apologetically, "I think we were going into the nearby forest. Raith and I had felt something there recently, and wanted to go explore."

Having never been into a forest, Harry was keen on joining them, till with a start he realized that the two Redcaps could be planning a repeat of what had happened on Halloween night. As if reading his expression, which was quickly paling, Raith moved to his side, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I think this time we'll just be looking around," he assured, and Harry loosed a tense breath.

He wouldn't begrudge them the need to do what they needed, but Harry didn't think he was ready to be party to another scene like the one that had played out less than a month ago.

"We'd like for you to come if you feel up for it," Rede's words broke through his introspection, and Harry nodded. He may not know for sure what they had planned, but anything was better than mouldering in the Shack for another night straight.

After that, the day passed quickly into night, and Harry was slipping on his boots and a light cloak from the pack of clothes he'd acquired. Ixipti begged off, apparently too full of sugar from binging recently to handle such an outing. The forest wasn't a long walk away, and they followed the tracks from the station to reach it with ease, the moon's light painting the gravel that packed around the ties a pale gray in it's light. In the near distance, he could see the deep verdant of the forest spreading out to the north and southeast, taking up the horizon and breaking it's skyline into jagged teeth and leering profiles.

They broke trail beyond the last lights of Hogsmeade, and turned to the embrace of the wood. Though he had little in the way of expectations, the expanse of trees held a kind of hush that seemed to swallow footsteps, mute loud breath and mask it's creature's calls into a gentle cacophony that he found almost soothing. It was, he realized from his few token visits, like walking into a church.

With a light step he walked by Rede, as she and Raith stalked along, crouched low and scanning the sparse underbrush. It was amazing how quiet they were, despite their ever-present huge iron boots. If he didn't know they were there, he'd likely have never seen them.

Despite his ease, the depth of the dark, the shadowplay and filtered moonlight painted frightening things for them to find, and more than once Harry found himself startled and gasping. Raith crouched down beside him at one of these points, while Rede continued her scouting. "Able to go on?" The Redcap's question irked him, as they seemed fearless in the face of this massive, unknown forest, while jumped and started at the most innocent shadow.

Nodding, Harry made to rise but the Fey held him still, a hand to his shoulder. "Fey see things humans don't," he said simply, and after a moment's silence plucked Harry's glasses free. "Look through the dark."

Harry made to argue, but heaved a sigh instead. Apparently Fey didn't need glasses, he groused to himself, blinking back at the swirl and swim of indistinct smudges that his naked eyes presented him. Without his vision, he listened for Raith and Rede, and heard them – at least he hoped it was them – faintly nearby. Shoving his annoyance away for later, he tried to 'see through the dark' as Raith had so expertly explained, telling himself that very soon he needed to explain that unlike them, he could only 'see through his bloody glasses'.

Finding the deepest smudge of black around, Harry focused, squinting in a way he was sure would send the Fey rolling in laughter. Rolling his eyes, he wasn't sure what the cove of brambles and nettles were supposed to...

Expression slack and color draining, Harry blinked and focused back on the patch of dense undergrowth and stared. He saw them as clear as his... well he never saw this clearly. With a jerk he scanned all around, seeing sharp edges, staggering details. The ash tree nearest him had a pattern of light scars that broke the age-split rings that cracked it's bark, lichen growing across and around in a deep bed along it's windward face. "How," he managed to croak, too enraptured with looking all around him to bother with further words.

Padding out of from around a stand of birch and oak, Rede grinned at the stunned youth. "The Unseelie have an affinity for winter and night. We didn't know it would help, but it was worth a try," she explained, taking the glasses from Raith's hand and giving them back to Harry. "But as nice as this is, it's not all. Come, there's much forest left to see."

Tucking the frames into a pocket Harry sped along, noisy and gleeful, chasing the lithe and quiet shadows that were his friends. As they passed a stand of old growth evergreens, the ground littered with needles that filled the air with a heavy scent of pitch and pine, he saw the retreating form of a huge white animal. With a short yell, Raith went into a sprint, his sister and Harry behind.

They followed the beast for minutes, till it outdistanced them, leaving the three panting and grinning, happy to just be out and seeing a world beyond the Shack. Other mysteries lurked as they prowled the ancient wood, resolving themselves as things to chase, and sometimes things that chased them. Of the latter, Harry would have to reevaluate his opinion that spiders were harmless and generally friendly, after being hounded by a pair of them the size of a large dog for nearly five minutes of fleeing. Rede and Raith panted beside him, ears tuned to the wood and eyes bright and watching, but smiling regardless.

The Redcaps were brilliant guides, showing him things he'd miss out of hand so easily. A Dryad's tree bordering a glade, the curious face of the spirit bound to it peering around the trunk, offering a hesitant wave of greeting which they returned. Further, a small cove of night-blooming flowers, which exploded into a chorus and riot of colors and sounds as a host of small Fey like Ixipti mobbed them, chittering and babbling happily at their company.

Along a small stream and marsh they found a solitary Sluagh, who's whispered words set Harry's hackles to shivering but seemed nice enough. The Fey's lank hair and bog-colored clothing hid it's form, but it's staring, intense eyes were bright in the moonlight. Raith carried on with the slinking, strange Fey easy enough, so Harry left him to it, as he admired the Sluagh's garden of late-blooming Yarrow, Meadowsweet, Bog Myrtle, and Marsh Violets. He wondered at the growth, but didn't question it too much – a Fey's garden was as likely magical as anything. The Fey also seemed to have a few tame Will o' Wisps about as well, that bobbed around and tried to get Harry off into the sinking marshes.

Circling back around those hazardous wetlands, the three made a slow trek back toward the town, tired of running and starting to feel the chill despite their natures. They were maybe, by Raith's account, fifteen minutes from the forest edge when the Redcaps came to a sudden halt, pushing Harry to a tree and standing before him, walling him in.

Confused and a little put off by the harsh handling, Harry turned to see what had prompted their treatment when he saw the source, or rather sources, all leveling their bows and spears at the three.

"You will come with us," the leader, or at least the one furthest forward said, a pale figure on horseback – _no_, Harry realized with a start, a Centaur. He had pale coloration, making the young boy think of the picturebooks he'd seen when younger, and intense blue eyes. His hair, that on his head, matched his equine half, being a dusty blond. Other Centaurs ranged behind this one, all with weapons pointed toward them, but generally they were of a coloration that was darker than this one, a brown that sometimes held white markings. There was one other of their number, to the back and watching as intently as the rest, who's coat and skin were a deep gray, bordering on black.

Raith didn't seem to think highly of their demands, and proved the fact with his sudden, angry words, "What business would we have with _horsemen_?"

The collected shifted angrily at the address, and Harry's eyes narrowed. To his left, Rede's posture stiffened, as she added her own reply, "Weapons first and questions later? Oh how the _proud_ have fallen, _noble_ Centaurs. _Wise_ indeed."

Harry was shocked at the rancor in her words, but was more so at the result, as the host of the half-men drew back as if struck, including their leader. Clearing his throat, the figure stamped a hoof and addressed them, in less hostile tones, "Our council would speak with you, there are dire omens about... war is on the horizon."

"We don't care about your stargazing," Raith spat out, his tone as venomous as before.

"Your council has an interesting way of making requests," Rede added, making the leader of the small group facing them fidget uncomfortably. "Perhaps they've fallen from their touted neutrality, brother."

"So it would seem," Raith answered easily, and with that the Centaur's weapons went slack, those still trained on them.

Harry was lost, but grateful that he no longer had bows pointed at him or his friends. He had no illusions that the three of them could do anything to protect themselves if it came to violence, and wanted to avoid that at all costs. Still, the byplay between the Redcaps and Centaurs worried him. What was between them that could cause these reactions? Why did the Centaurs come at them, as Rede had said, weapons first and requests after? Confused but curious, he added his own voice to the uneasy meeting, "Why did you come at us as if to attack?"

Regaining some of his balance, the blond Centaur addressed them, his tone implying that the cryptic words were relevant somehow, "As I said, war is in the stars, coming-"

"Centaurs are, by and large, neutral," Rede interrupted, glaring with her amber eyes across the small herd that were backing away from the three Fey. She continued, as the collected angled themselves, clearly indicating the way they wished the children to go, "Unless they defend their herdgrounds, or a personal attack, they shouldn't draw weapons against travelers." Raith and Rede remained where they were, refusing to be corralled.

Raith snorted, shooting angry glares at the horsemen, as he'd called them, "If we'd defended ourselves, they could have just hauled us back to their council, claiming defense. Our nature would work against us." With another angry grumble, the Fey lurched forward and along the path the leader indicated, followed by Harry who was urged on by Rede. The three had little doubt that refusing outright would prompt less courteous 'requests'.

As their escort gathered around them, an enclosing wall between them and the forest, Harry began to wonder if his trip to the wood was a good idea after all. Back into the deeper growth they walked, but Harry's mind wouldn't let the encounter rest. His Fey had been confrontational, even rude. "Rede," he called, jerking his head to get her to see his intent.

Walking up along side him, the amber-eyed Fey shot him a curious glance, "What did you need?"

"Why are you and Raith so against them? If they're neutral?"

Rede snorted, shaking her head. "They pulled iron weapons on us, Harry," she said softly, but the nearest Centaur shifted suddenly, darting further away as if the statement stung him. She smirked, watching, but went on, "That's high insult, to a Fey. Particularly when we were on our way, obviously nowhere near their herdgrounds, minding our own business."

Harry nodded, but the explanation only opened more questions in his mind, for later. Iron, she'd mentioned, and he'd easily picked up the edge to the word. He'd inquire about that some other time. Heaving a sigh, Rede saw the encampment that the Centaurs used looming ahead, "And as for neutrality? Only really counts till _they_," nodding toward their escort, she again seemed to spook the creature with her rancor, "decide otherwise. All it means is you pick your enemies when you want them. Besides," she added with a smirk, "it's also easy to hide behind such notions. You'll find, Harry, neutral sometimes just means opinionated, but cowardly."

Shaking his head, Harry caught the face of one of their escort, the dark-skinned Centaur, considering them thoughtfully. Not really caring considering he and his were vastly outnumbered, out-muscled, and out in the middle of unknown woodland, Harry was more concerned with not angering their hosts. The Redcaps had grown silent and sullen, shooting glares about them when a Centaur got too close, or when they heard hoofsteps that clattered too loudly.

Thankfully it seemed their council, at least Harry assumed the graying and older looking Centaurs before him were the council, were waiting for them. One of the older, grayer of the five stamped forward, then. "We grant you sanctuary here. We grant you our apologies for the youth of our people. We ask that you not judge, as we do not, and hear our words with open heart, mind, and eyes."

Harry feared the Redcaps would get them all killed, with their barely stifled snorts and open sneering, at the old Centaur's loftily proclaimed monologue. Regardless, Harry tried to balance his trust in Rede's words and his curiosity on what the half-men wanted.

"The council would speak with the Potter child," the graying Centaur said then, answering his question.

He made to step forward then, but Raith cut him off, and Rede spun him about, hands on his shoulders. "Don't let them talk you into anything," She murmured quietly, staring at him hard. Nodding quietly, Harry offered her a smile, hoping it masked his anxiety well enough. Rede didn't seem to notice, as she suddenly reached around his neck, pulling out the pendant that was usually trapped next to his skin, bronze eyes gleaming. "There. That will make them think twice," she chirped, before shoving him out toward the waiting council.

He didn't know why precisely he was singled out, as Harry assumed his two Redcap friends would be more interesting than him. Of course he didn't want them to deal with such things, but he wondered, regardless, why him? The council waited inside the herdgrounds proper, which bordered the forest with a raised wall of hewn logs, locked and reaching far up and above him. He could only see a sliver of the grounds inside, but the tall-doored dwellings, the huge spaces, and great bowl of an amphitheater were apparent even from his limited vantage. Arranged just inside the gate and it's illuminating torches, their placing obviously meant as a gesture of some sort, were the council.

Austere and looking down at him from their high vantages, they seemed to judge him with their rheumy eyes, despite their words. Harry stared back, arms slack but his fists were balled up. He was tired from the running, irritable from the arguing, and anxious with all the weapons and the feeling of danger earlier. First Aberforth, now this...

As their eyes traveled over him, some bothering with little more than cursory glances, one of their number gasped, eyes locked on Harry's pendant. "He bears winter's mark!"

A general outcry broke from the surrounding herd then, as the council shifted uneasily and murmured to each other in a harsh, guttural tongue. Tired of standing and being stared at, Harry stomped his foot, calling out to them, "What is it you want? I didn't come here to get gawked at! If you wanted something, then get on with it."

The pale-colored Centaur from earlier reared up then, glaring at him angrily from his position to the side, "Watch your tongue! You speak to our elders and-"

"Be silent!" A heavily muscled Centaur, still in his prime but showing the coming of his years, bellowed out at the collected herd. "Firenze! Your usual lenience with men seems to have escaped you. Explain yourself."

Hedging and with hooves dancing along the ground in anxiety, the pale-colored Centaur shot him an accusing look, "I don't trust him. There is something off about the man-child! He keeps the company of the Winterborne!"

"Your youth betrays you, yet again, Firenze," the larger Centaur accused, and with those words alone the blond that had spoken just recently in anger seemed cowed. Turning back to Harry, the Centaur's gaze took him in, "Do you know what that mark means, man-child?"

"My name is Harry Potter," the boy spat, glaring about himself. _Man-child_. They may as well have been calling him 'boy' with their condescending tones. Taking a breath to calm himself, Harry's lips drew into a tight line, "and this?" He held up his pendant, making more than a few hooves stamp in nervous reply. "Of course I know what it means.

"It was given to me by my godmother, Maeve," he said, standing tall and proud, as the little stone flashed with a brief glint. At those words the council drew back as one, shock playing across many faces there, and some of the younger Centaurs simply fled into the gate. Behind him, Harry heard the Redcaps cackling and laughing, as the chaos spread, and more of the herd ran for the cover of the walled enclave.

As one small, obviously terrified and young Centaur came by and apparently too close to Rede, she hopped forward from where she lazed and yelled "Boo!" at it, sending it careening across the turfed patch with it's arms over it's head. Soon, only a small group, headed by the dark-skinned Centaur to their left and still outside the gate, and the council remained, to speak with them.

Taking a deep breath, the leader as Harry had come to think of him, regarded him with eyes that this time didn't seem to judge. "We have done you a grave disservice, child of Winter. We wished to speak of the coming war, to warn you of Mars, how it's light will shine on your path for many years, yet now..." looking up, the old Centaur seemed to draw into himself slightly.

The council as well, took his queue, staring skyward through the clearing their enclave made in the trees up at the stars. A strange, sing-song chant began among the council, in their guttural tongue, and went on for minutes as Harry motioned for the Redcaps to join him. To his surprise and mild anxiety, the dark-skinned Centaur closed as well, but his and those with him had their weapons put away. While the chant went on, he glanced at the Centaur, who offered him a grim smile and slight nod, before return his attention to the council. Harry followed suit.

With an unseen signal, the council's chant halted a few moments later. As one they lowered their eyes to him, a strange experience to say the least, before the leader spoke again. "Saturn's influence rises among houses, as Jupiter grows weak and uncertain. Castor, Pollux gain the influence of Capricorn. Virgo remains uncertain... while the sea-beast's roar has sent Aphrodite and Eros to flight once more," sighing expansively, the Centaur regarded him an unreadable expression on his face.

"Mars' focus remains fixed, but flickers. We offer a warning to you, heir of Winter. Beware the serpent. Each of it's stars serves the darkness. Remember this, for it will serve you well."

The elder seemed to lose his calm at this point, glancing nervously between Harry's necklace, and his face. "And now, I must address the insult to you. I would ask, heir of Winter, that you forgive our young their mistake. So rarely are men in our wood that they didn't consider you or your company anything else, I'm sure," the older Centaur assured, but Harry wasn't as convinced.

Judging by her condescending laughter, Rede didn't seem to give much credit to that idea either. "Oh, because really, trouping Redcaps and the Scion to the Winter Queen herself are easy to mistake!" Fuming still, the girl kicked a stone hard, sending it ricocheting off the enclave's wall, upsetting something on the other side which fell with a clatter. Harry's brow rose at this, as he knew the stone was barely more than a pebble, and looked to Rede who simply shrugged, unapologetic.

A general murmur rose with her shouted recrimination, a hushed, and if Harry read it by expression and the nervous pawing of hooves, frightened one at that. Beside him, Raith tapped his shoulder, and Harry bent his head to him, "He knows the depth of their insult. You could demand blood."

Head snapping around, Harry regarded the Redcap with mild shock. Raith continued, in the same tone though, "I'd not. We don't want that kind of memory with them. As much as they preach neutrality when it serves them, they'll lean on the town and people there."

Harry nodded, but his attention returned to the Centaurs, when the elder cleared his throat, "We would offer you a boon. An act of apology to show that we mean no ill will toward you and your's."

Rede stepped forward, and Harry was grateful. He had no idea how to handle this situation, and hoped the Redcaps, who at least seemed to know Centaurs existed before stepping in the forest unlike him, would have a clue. Looking to Harry, Rede waited for his nod to speak, "A boon? How great is your herd's shame?"

With a groan, Harry began to doubt the confrontational siblings or himself would make out of the forest alive. With a glance to where he was sure the Centaurs would be rearing and glaring, he instead found the elder, head bowed in deep thought. Surprised, he watched the byplay between the two, as it unfolded.

Finally after a handful of minutes, the elder's hoof struck the ground, "You could demand the life of the leader, of those that should have simply delivered our request."

"We would not spill blood without need," Rede replied, but her smile belied her words, and even Harry was mildly amused by her insinuation, considering her nature. Apparently, this wasn't lost on the elder or the dark-skinned Centaur, for both shifted nervously. With an expansive sigh, the elder nodded, gesturing Rede to continue. Rede tapped at her chin, the same smile stretched across her lips and making the wicked points of her teeth glint in the moonlight. "Ah. We have our boon."

"Then ask, Winterborne," the elder prompted, looking pained and weary at the words.

"Forget us. We do not exist to you. Only those we allow shall carry memory of the Scion of Winter's Troupe."

The elder made to argue the demand, but leaned back instead, looking in contemplative appeal at the sky. "Perhaps it is best... the herd agrees," he declared loudly, but then shot a look to the Centaurs outside the gate. "The memories of those who follow the herd's laws will neglect you. Our dealings are done, Winterborne. Safe journeys to you." No more was said, as the elders turned and quickly retreated, apparently to spread word of the boon to their people.

Boggling, Harry simply nodded and stepped back, as gate between the enclave and his own shut. As much as he tried to keep things clear in his young mind from the last few weeks, some things had started to stand out, and those few things irked him. The impression he received from those that knew of Fey, all spoke that the Unseelie weren't very... nice. Here again, among a previously unknown people, just being who he was, was something apparently difficult to deal with. Difficult enough to earn them special words, to be labeled with. Winterborne. He was grateful to Maeve, but was beginning to have some misgivings, centered on her.

Harry turned to the siblings, who shrugged and shook their heads at his questionioning look. "They are bound, as all magical things, to their word. This will make sure any secrets you bring into the woodland, stay there," Rede replied, looking as tired as he felt.

It was the dark Centaur who remained, that stepped forward and gained their attention. "My apologies, but his words... when he spoke of herd law, he purposefully did so. Me and mine are those that think differently, and so exist in that gray area."

Raith glowered at the Centaur's abrupt entry into their midst, but didn't speak out as he had recently. Instead he looked to Rede, and they shared a moment to speak, silently. Turning from her sibling, the Fey addressed the remaining Centaurs and their spokesman, "If you would keep the secret as well, and help us to understand the other Centaur's strange words we'd welcome you."

The dark-skinned figure nodded and answered, his tone relaxed from it's earlier strain, "Their words, wise if one can read them, are hard for outsiders to puzzle out. It is the nature of their magic to give vague advice but say nothing solid." When the three regarded him with open curiosity, he sketched a small nod, "My name is Bane, Winterborne."

Raith, as blunt as ever, simply rose a brow to Bane and his few followers. "Why did you remain?"

Chuckling, the Centaur nodded toward a path, gesturing them along, "For one, because the elders didn't see fit to give you a guide. You would find unpleasant traps if you walked from here on your own.

"Also, I am no friend of men," the Centaur added cagily, peering back toward them, and Harry felt, him in particular. "We, Firenze, the council and I, disagree on many things. Your decision to stay hidden... implies a similar mindset."

"And this is why you're helping us," Rede added, watching as their guides skirted some clear trail to hike through what appeared to be nettled underbrush. The scrub was an illusion, simply a rough-trimmed bush of an aromatic sort. She didn't comment on the question the action painted along the avoided path.

Bane shrugged, laughing quietly, "The Fey are like us. They go about their duties, keep their own counsel and leave us to our own. They don't try to make us part of their struggles, don't involve us in their politics."

"You _dislike_ humans, then," Raith offered, clear emphasis against the vague neutrality offered earlier, receiving a nod in return.

"The nearness of the town and school to the forest clouds the elder's minds. They worry on human things, human wars, human influence and concerns," Bane shook his head in annoyance, as the lights of nearby Hogsmeade glinted through the trees ahead. Turning, he regarded Harry shrewdly, "I find you interesting, heir of Winter. Your willing departure – we can see your blood in Maeve's mark – from the grips of human nature intrigues me. What plans will you make, what storms will come from your choices?"

Shaking his head, Harry knew he had no answer to those questions. "I don't know."

Bane smiled, his teeth bright in an otherwise darkened face. "Precisely. Unlike men you offer a question. A chance at change. My people are rooted in æons of traditions, bogged down with it and tied to them in our histories. The change of men seems born of their manipulations, turning each person and people into a resource, a stepping stone.

"The Fey... being bound by your natures, like us, I see a kinship. Will you walk Winter's path, Harry Potter, or will choose the one scribed there," pointing, Bane indicated his scar, making Harry reach up and run a finger along it in return. "A path given to you by men?"

Again, Harry could only shake his head. "I'm young still... I don't even know what half of what you're saying means, or what your elders said."

With a look to his small group, Bane nodded, and received a few small gestures in turn. When he received those, Bane continued, "Of course. The elders I think listen to old humans too much, but we know the ways of our seeing. I could help, with their words, give you insight. Your youth, and the mark of Winter redeem you. If you would have it, I'd offer my friendship, Harry of Winter."

Rede to his left, nudged him with a nod. Harry extended his hand, offering the Centaur a wary smile. "I think we accept."

"Then let our herds share land, and the winds bring us the scent of water." With those words, Bane took his offered gesture, shaking once firmly. "Dawn is still hours away, yet you would do well to not be seen so easily coming and going from this place. The humans fear it, and all that embrace it easily."

Raith took the hint, and lead them free of the woods, leaving Bane and his allies to their own and the shade of the forest.

As the Centaurs returned to their enclave, Bane spoke aloud the concerns of his closest companions, "You worry on the Wintermaiden's claim on him?"  
"Yes, Bane. Would you throw in your lot with darkness?"

Snorting, the dark-skinned Centaur regarded the other patiently, as they slowly cantered back to the enclave, "No, but then what is darkness? You know as well as I, that the Fey aren't concerned with the machinations of men or their sweeping and ever-changing definitions." Shaking his head, Bane stopped, some distance from their goal. "Does our nature, the reading and knowing of stars, make us all oracles? Is it our duty to unravel fate's design because of that?" Snorting, he reared slightly. "Of course not!"

Bane stilled, his anger evaporating. "No more than it's their lot to do evil. It's all nature to them. Now, this fate-tangled boy appears, mumbled about by wizards and oracles, yet they miss the Wintermaiden's hand?

"What do you think it means, Gjalbron?" The questioning Centaur simply shook his head in reply. "It means, my brothers, that here is a crux. A man-child, beloved of Winter. You want to be a part of fate, isn't that why you follow me? One cursed to never hear the stars words, despite my studies, but be entangled in them from birth?" When those that followed him nodded, some rearing in agreement he gestured about himself grandly. "Well, brothers, this youngling is that! Some of Winter's most feared follow him like foals, and he doesn't see it. A leader, yes... my fate leads to him, and with his parting from men, I sense a kindred spirit. Fate calls the boy, and I will see it's pattern, first hand!"

',',',',',','

Harry and the Fey stumbled home, but something in the last hour had invigorated him. The words of the elders echoed around his mind, making little sense but painting interesting shadows in his mind's eye. Ixipti flitted about, worrying at him till he scooped her out of the air and sat her atop his head, earning him a snort from her and laughs from the siblings.

Of the Redcaps, Harry worried himself. Between their behavior – which could have gotten them killed – and the ready acceptance of Bane's offer, he was utterly confused. To himself he wondered at their... competence. The two seemed so much older than him. With a sigh he had to admit the topic never came up. Magic, he groused to himself, made things rather complicated.

When he spoke to them about his concerns, Rede tried to explain how their particular magic worked, that it was as much their nature as the way the Centaurs had approached them, but it didn't quite make sense to him. She promised in time that it would, and assured him they weren't in any more danger than he was now. Still, he wanted to understand what had gone on, on the level they knew it.

With a sigh, Harry let it go and stalked around his yard, his aggravation easing. Apparently their visit had enticed the smaller Fey, Ixipti's kin, out of the woods and his gardens and hedge were a veritable starscape in miniature, centered on him. Laughing, he let them pull and guide him in a directionless dance, which left him breathless and grinning on the ground.

Summoned by his laughter and the noise of the Fey, the Redcaps joined them, and the lot told the little Fey stories, knowing how they loved them. Their telling became acting, as the night wore on, and the cloud of exited Fey surged and fluttered, a tide of ghostlight and moondust on the darkened airs.

Rede, Raith and Harry stayed with them till dawn, when the young boy noticed that with the coming sun, his vision worsened. Seeing that as signal enough, he retired with the Fey, content and happy now with the night, the enigmatic words of the elders slipping from his mind.

While he and his Fey slipped off to dream, the town woke in starts and some with memories of dire dreams, the grip of nightmares still heavy on them. As the day dawned and the lethargic people went about their normal, unchanging lives, they shared shivers and sympathetic glances to one another. It seemed an ill wind had blown through the town that night, and left a bounty of dark dreams in it's wake.

',',',',',','

A/N: This chapter nearly ended up being broken into two. My outline expansion went exponential here somehow. Um. Stuff. Oracular stargazing nonsense has no grounding in anything real. It's just hodge-podge and smoke, really, but if you can piece together inference from zodiac signs, specific stars, extrapolated names both modern and archaic, and then turn around and assign symbology to the lot correctly, I'll give you a cookie. I'll ask for Luna's cell number.

I expect about a week till next FFN post, 3-4 days till beta. I don't know if the next chapter will be a 14k word beast like this one.

Thanks go out to the DLP forums for helping with ironing out the rough parts, and offering feedback to help me make it a better story. Special thanks go to! Meatzman2, Taure, Shezza, Demons, Zommie [because I can] and the rest who's names I know but will taunt you with making you wait till next chapter.


	7. A Coming Storm

**A Coming Storm**

_"I don't think I ever had a real childhood. It was always one long, complex lesson at living. I suppose it's the same for everyone. I wonder if your lessons involved the threat of mobs with torches, though." -Harry Potter _

Harry grumbled quietly, before rocking back and banging his head against a wall in frustration. He couldn't get the glamor he'd been tasked to study to take properly.

Raith looked up from where he was studiously levering a chisel against one of his iron boots, wincing as the hammer he was still swinging caused the bite to gouge deep in the metal. Sighing, Harry got up and found the Fey a towel, as the riven metal bled along the Shack's floor. "Sorry, didn't mean to distract you."

Waving the apology off, Raith bound the rag around his instep and leaned back, tentatively flexing the massive metalshod boot. "I shouldn't have lost focus."

Watching Raith tend to his injury, Harry looked around the den of the Shack, where the two had been idling since morning. A great many things had changed over the weeks of winter, after his move to the there from the Dursley's, and to him the biggest of those was how he spent his days.

Harry had yet to hear anything about school or truancy, so it seemed wherever he was, happened to be outside those rules. Such a thing seemed so alien really, he'd always been told that dodging classes would get him in vast amounts of trouble, but then again, this was from the same relatives that hated him. Perhaps there were different ways here. Throughout the days he'd spent near Hogsmeade, those thoughts had been confirmed, as the other children who made the town home seemed unconcerned with such notions as well.

Despite the lack of obligation, Harry missed those classes. He didn't realize it till after the move, but that simple seeming activity; learning, interacting with others, discovering new things... it had made his days full and staved off the boredom that had taken to making him feel caged. As if sensing his growing disquiet the siblings had taken action, and found a way without being asked to ease it.

His current distraction was learning the basics of Fey magic, glamor, which was essentially a kind of illusion as far as his understanding went. To that end, the Redcaps had enlisted help, something Harry was at once very grateful and irritated about. Grateful because he found out quickly enough that the Redcaps had very little talent for illusion, their strengths being physical and because of this, Harry exhausted their store of knowledge very quickly. His irritation came from the now crowded Shack, who's number of occasional occupants nearly doubled.

Raith's tying of the rag about his shod foot drew his attention back to the present, and he wondered if there was anything he could do. Harry winced as the murky stain on the cloth continued spreading slowly. It was curious, but no more so than anything else really, Harry mused. The Redcap's iron shoes being something basically antithetic to Fey, yet unable to be taken off. He'd never asked about them, and considering how oddly reverent the two were about it, would be content to learn when they decided to share. Something just seemed... personal about it. That brought Harry's mind to his new occasional roommates.

In a way, it was the same for all the Fey he'd come to know over the last weeks of winter. His tutor, Tock, was another of the Fey that he had so many questions about but was too nervous to ask after. She came to be staying with them due to Rede, who admitted that the siblings were originally taught the glamors they knew by the Clockwork Fey as well.

If the Redcaps were odd, Tock was outright strange, Harry had decided early on. Unlike the siblings, the Clockwork were unable to masquerade as a human at all, without heavy glamor. This of course lead to their kind being rather good at their glamors and magics, and so Tock became his primary tutor. Joints like a doll's, and with the chiming of a music box with every motion, she was a curious creature to be sure, but Harry often forgot those things when lessons began. The Fey was brilliant, with a sharp intellect and a true thirst for results and perfection, which was at once frustrating and helpful. Tock didn't allow him to slack off, and so he learned, whether he felt capable or not. Harry's practice with glamor had been positively relaxing with Rede, before she'd invited the harsh tutor.

Unlike the Redcaps who Harry had realized early on were much older than they appeared, Tock actually looked like an 'adult', for all her strangely elongated limbs, weird seamed skin and tinkling ambient sounds. Discarding any glamors while at the Shack, Harry had seen her as she was, and like his first meeting with the Sluagh Grissnath in the forest and Maeve, when her nature was revealed, the experience was somewhat staggering.

To mask her nature, Tock often wore a cloak, something huge and billowing that not only muffled the noises her body made as she moved, but also managed to obscure the larger and more obvious differences in her form. Though she wasn't ashamed of her nature, when Harry had asked why she wore the over-garment indoors, Tock had informed him that often the Clockwork like her were viewed as abnormalities in Fey. Their very nature seemed to unsettle those of either Court, and so it had become habit for those of her path to wear those billowing cloaks. It also, she admitted, allowed the Clockwork to do their smaller, personal work without always being asked about it constantly.

Shamed somewhat for his curiosity, Harry had inquired regardless, and was answered by another pair of arms presenting themselves, one of which waving its finger at him in a chiding way. Harry had not asked her about such things since.

Where Tock was an excellent teacher, Harry found a kindred spirit in his pursuits for silence and solitude in her companion, Thlaynlé. Lane, as he preferred to be called, was a shape shifter, something he called a Puka. Often he'd explained while idling in the snow during a clear day, the odd nuances of individual Fey. Lane was a storyteller, content to weave tales and converse, which was why he accompanied Tock rather than stay with a particular group of other shifters. That personality quirk made him an anomaly, and so rather than deal with the vicious pecking order of other Puka, he'd taken up the role of scribe to Tock's inventing and travels. It was through Lane that Harry began to learn the names and natures of his adopted world.

Raith had seen Harry's thirst for knowledge and understanding with the two Fey that Rede had summoned, and so also invited Grissnath to the Shack, when he could be pulled away from his own activities in the marsh. Introspective, quiet and somewhat stand-offish, Grissnath was a seeker of knowledge and truth, something Harry had originally simplified to calling the Sluagh a researcher. Offended, the corpse-faced Fey had asked Harry precisely how asking questions that could not be answered in any record, be research? That had sparked a debate on the names of different branches of inquisitive thinking, and was just the beginning of their long and sometimes heated conversations.

Their topics had spiraled out from there. Where Tock was brilliant with logic and making the connections between ideas with small steps and good reasons, Grissnath was an intuitive thinker and solver, using abstract ideals to bend concepts to suit the paths he needed to reach conclusions. Rede had called him a philosopher, to which the Sluagh had shrugged, figuring the human ideal was close enough. Politics of the Courts, intrigue and the things of the soul were the Sluagh's contribution to Harry's days, and often he found the Fey's peculiar ways of thinking taxed him more than Tock's direct and exhaustive lessons.

The primary difference became apparent when Harry began to realize that Grissnath hadn't taught him one spell, one scrap of glamor. Yet, most of the ideas he'd instilled or inspired through guiding Harry's thinking, urging him to answer difficult questions, had applications to Tock's lessons. Where the Clockwork taught him how to do, the Sluagh taught him how to think.

Between them all though, Harry still spent most of his time with Rede and Raith, who through sheer force and sometimes blackmail, taught him how to have fun. The new additions to what Rede referred to as his Troupe, usually stayed in the forest at Grissnath's home at the marsh. Tock and Lane explained the closeness to the human town made them edgy, and Griz – Harry and Rede's affectionate name for the Sluagh – himself reminded him that the Shack was built for humans. The Redcaps and Harry got along fine there, but unlike them, the Sluagh, Clockwork and Puka were Fey in a stricter sense. Like the sprites and pixies who usually stayed outside, they found such places unpleasant over long periods. This left Harry, for the most part, with only his first friends as constant company.

With a sigh, Harry shook off his distracted musings. He couldn't focus, and these wandering thoughts weren't helping anything. Bringing himself back to the present, Harry noted that Raith's injured foot was likely not going to help them with the fun they'd had planned for that afternoon. This was another reason, at least Harry figured, that the others had retreated. Their pranks and jokes bent toward the malicious on occasion, more than once resulting in minor injuries and damage to the Shack. Feeling a spike of guilt at the Fey's injury, he thought it best to get the Redcap some help, "I'll get Rede," he said, as Raith tested his foot by standing uneasily.

He was spurred on by wanting to try the new illusion, one he hoped would keep him and the Fey amused for a while. Part of why he was having problems with it though, was their target. For all he disliked Aberforth, he didn't know if pranking the old man was the best idea, no matter how much fun it would be.

Still, it was probably better than letting the Redcaps eat him out of slight. Someone would probably ask questions.

Rede had taken to tending the surrounding plants, something Harry had been curious of before. Though she admitted it wasn't her specialty, there was a certain drive to spruce up their space, which Harry did understand very well. When he found her, she was out on the lawns chatting with one of Ixipti's sprite kin. Dropping to sit by her as she wove an illusion, simple and solid, around some leaning saplings that would likely fall to winter's weight if not tended. Some Fey were rather good at their glamors, while some could only perform those of their nature, Rede was rare in her talents for shaping, for their particular path. Redcaps were generally considered one of the least magically capable, yet physically strong of their Court, something the twins had admitted openly.

"Raith has injured his boot," Harry said as way of greeting, while Rede dusted her canvas pants off idly, admiring her work.

Frowning, she turned to him and sat a moment, uncaring of the snow. "What happened? That's not like him at all." Harry explained what went on, as she shook her head and sighed. "Sloppy, it'll take days for that to heal right," biting her lip, the Redcap groaned. "We'll have to put off dealing with Aberforth."

Wincing, Harry just nodded. "Is it that bad?"

"We can't heal iron," she said faintly, running a hand along the polished metal of her own heavy boots. "Maybe a glamor, but it would fade quickly. I'd rather he heals normally."

Agreeing, and feeling contrite with his guilt over distracting Raith and causing the injury, Harry stood and made to head back to the Shack. "If there's nothing you can do, I think I'll head into Hogsmeade and see about what I can find that may help."

"Ask Griz about Fey medicine first," Rede called back, before moving on to another sapling, a sprite wrapping itself in her hair and tugging insistently. She was sure Harry meant well, but there wasn't likely anything in the wizarding town that would help. The Sluagh would convince him or keep him from getting too down about this.

',',',',',','

In afternoon, the town was much more lively, with people wandering about and shopping, or tending to their small socializing all over. Harry sat content, having picked up one of the three things that Grissnath had instructed him about, that could be made into a salve for the young Redcap. It wasn't much, but it made him feel better for his hand in Raith's injury. The unpleasant circumstance was that their plans for the brother Dumbledore had to be put off for some time. It had also given him some ideas on making a more Fey-friendly medicine chest, which Grissnath had thought was an excellent idea. For all his stringy, lank hair, distorted and gray skin and utterly strange manner of moving, the Sluagh was generally kind and rather helpful.

So what if he spoke to ghosts from travelers he'd lead to the bog to drown... there was a reason the forest was forbidden to the town, and people should know better than to follow a Wisp if they were in a marsh. Really. The ghosts in the end didn't seem to mind either way, after their initial shock and anger. Realizing a Sluagh wasn't really able to be haunted like a human most resigned themselves to days if not weeks of chatter, after which most were rather genial.

Harry snickered. Grissnath had shared the secret to this, which was something the young boy had found quite interesting. Humans, and Fey too, liked to talk about themselves, he'd explained. Guiding a conversation where you start by asking your focus to talk about themselves was the best way to glean knowledge.

In the end, the ghosts got to do something purely selfish and catering to their own sense of self – spending days at a time extolling their lives, while Grissnath sifted the information for rare gems of real use. To the dead it was also cathartic as having recounted their lives, most were much more peaceful with themselves, and often faded to the next world or drifted off to this or that end.

Harry had asked that the next time Griz got a 'visitor', to let him know. The whole thing sounded fascinating. It was during this musing, drawing ghosts with a stick in the snow that the usual stream of staring people seemed to thin. People didn't glance his way often, but when they did it was for only a moment.

Harry could imagine their thoughts, "Oh, just another urchin," "How strange," "I wonder where his parents are?" He'd heard as much, time and again.

With a sigh, he leaned back against the building he sat before, closing his eyes and tapping the stick to his side idly. Though it was still winter, he wasn't bothered by the chill and was enjoying the sun, what there was of it and its warmth which was putting him in a doze when a reedy, odd little voice startled him back to awareness.

"Oh, my goodness!"

Cracking open an eye, Harry quickly sat up and blinked in confusion at the tiny man before him. Though he knew that the magical world held a lot of things that were still mysteries, when one was standing blinking in confusion at him with a sack of what looked like soda bottles, the reality kind of struck home. "Um, hello?" Harry offered, seeing the diminutive figure who was just taller than Milly seem to start back to awareness.

Setting his parcel aside, the little man offered a hand, "Oh my, what a fortuitous day! It's a pleasure to meet you." Faintly bursting with good will, Harry was hard pressed not to smile, so gave in and sat up to shake the short-statured figure's hand. He was the first person other than Aberforth to approach him, and the first at all to do so with a smile. When they'd parted, the small man introduced himself, "I'm Filius. Er, Flitwick. That is, Professor Filius Flitwick, of Hogwarts," the professor managed to squeak out.

Returning the gesture, Harry nodded and pointed to the west, "My name is Harry. I um... live down the lane." Having little else to say – at least that he felt he should, he laughed quietly. "Is it often that professors come to the village?"

Acknowledging happily, the short professor indicated the space beside Harry, and the young boy made space. "Oh yes, we come down rather often. But dear me! I'd remember you if you'd lived here long!" Quite excited, the professor suddenly blanched, looking around quickly. "That is, you do... _know_... yes?"

Harry was rather amused by the little man's excitement, being almost infectious in intensity. Leaning in conspiratorially, Harry grinned, "I'm not sure, what am I supposed to _know_?"

Glancing around again, Filius gave him a hard looking over. He waved a hand and Harry got a strange feel, like static falling over his skin, then whispered lowly, "Young man, do you know what a changeling is?"

A cold finger ran up Harry's spine, as his expression went stony. Despite it, he regarded the little man with equal parts curiosity and wariness. "Yes, actually. I'm rather well connected to that side of my... family, in fact."

"Oh, very well then, I was... concerned you were unaware. Oh, manners, my apologies, I didn't mean to put you ill at ease," the diminutive man rattled out, his demeanor changing from dire to delighted seemingly as the seconds ticked by. Harry's head spun, trying to keep up. "I simply wanted to offer my assistance if you needed anything. You see," leaning in again and peering around, the little man grinned, "I've a touch of goblin blood in my family, if you'd believe it."

The two chuckled at the joke, and Harry relaxed around the professor, feeling him a kindred – if somewhat hyper – spirit. "How many, well. I suppose that would be hard to tell... But really, are there a lot of us?"

"Changelings? Oh no. Rare as they come. Halfblooded or Feytouched like me, more often though. That's uncommon but you see maybe three or four in your days," the little man replied, and Harry could understand why he'd been so excited. It must be a real relief to know you weren't the only kind of person of your type, in the world.

Harry had to admit, it actually was. "What is the school like? I know it's there, of course but that's about all."

"Oh, there is usually an orientation for the unfamiliar earlier in the year that you'd begin classes," Flitwick commented, his voice high with excitement. "Though, there's nothing that says a youngster can't visit before then. Would you be interested?"

Considering the offer a moment, Harry nodded happily, "You mentioned the year before, when do those classes begin?"

"Oh, we send out invitation letters to those who would be age eleven before term, which begins on September first," Filius explained, curious that the child who had just said he lived in Hogsmeade, didn't know the most basic thing about Hogwarts.

Harry had often found himself staring at the huge stonework castle, and being wary of Dumbledore, had avoided it. Flitwick though, offered him a very interesting option. "Since I'm practically a neighbor, that would be great," he answered, feeling some of the professor's excitement wash over him. Flitwick seemed rather nice, if a bit odd. If the school had people like him teaching, it had to be a rather nice place. Still, Harry was a changeling – not a wizard. It wouldn't do to get his hopes up, but he was curious and this made a fine opportunity.

That realization stung a bit, but he shrugged it off. So what if he wasn't a wizard? He'd seen and saw daily all they did with magic. Hogsmeade was dully, rather boring and seemed backwards really compared with even the neighborhood of Privet. It was interesting, sure, but if their way of life was so archaic, what did that mean for magic? It seemed like it kept the magical world from keeping pace with the other.

Also, compared to his previous human teachers, who were nice people but too easliy swayed by opinions and rumor, this professor who would take his time to approach him on the street seemed like a rare find. His current tutors were brilliant, but the possibility, small as it was, made him hope.

Harry's train of thought halted harshly, when he realized precisely what had happened, with the professor picking up on his nature so easily, "Wait, how did you know?"

"Oh? Oh, you're young yet, and I'm actually rather old to be honest. In time you'll learn to see your own kind as easily as if they wore pink hats," the little man explained, chuckling with his reedy voice after. Harry nearly smacked himself for the simplicity of that comment. Of course, being a halfblooded Fey would let him see those things... he was a changeling and saw the Redcaps and Ixipti just fine. "Fey magic is rather strong on its own. You'll learn to see it well enough as you grow older."

Though he wasn't so concerned about Flitwick, Harry did worry on Aberforth and the Headmaster Dumbledore, "Is it easy? I mean, can those not of Fey in some way tell?"  
Flitwick shook his head slightly, "Oh no. Though we sometimes trip wards... it's about impossible for wizards to detect innate Fey magics. They just don't work the same, and to be honest, human wizards are rather silly in thinking only their magic is important enough to look for," with a snort, Filius' eyes went glassy, as he delved into memory. "That on its own was half the reason I was so well-placed back in my dueling days.

"I had speed and size advantages naturally, but a little goblin magic to keep the mind clear, and for reading the lay of the land made me quite formidable." He shook off the slight preoccupation with a blush. "Sorry, woolgathering."

"It's alright, good day for it," Harry replied, still lazing from the chill and sun. Filius seemed to notice his attire and ease then, and his brow drew together. "Oh, so you're of ah, hrm."

"Winter," Harry replied evenly, figuring that was what the professor was meaning. With a knowing nod, Filius looked about himself, seeming pensive. "Is that a bad thing?" Though Harry remembered Rede's warning on how the Unseelie's nature worked against people's minds, Filius had yet to react, and Harry found that he really didn't want to drive the diminutive professor off. He made to say more, but Filius silenced him with a gesture.

"No, no not at all. I was just watching those children watch you. Did you know they were?"

Expecting to see Rede and Raith, Harry's expression fell when he looked to where the professor had indicated. Not the Fey at all, two young men lounged, pretending very badly to not be watching them. Harry found it curious anyone would bother, but remembered Rede's words to the Centaurs. Perhaps it would be best not to come into town alone again after all... "No, I didn't know," Harry finally replied, swallowing his anxiety for the moment. He did feel a bit better when the professor had said his Unseelie nature wasn't an issue, and assumed his genial manner was due to either being of Winter himself or that goblins could be neutral in the scheme of things like the Clockwork. Then again, he had little to go off of for the Summer Fey either, despite Grissnath's lessons, and it may be that he overestimated the animosity between the two. He just didn't know, which seemed to be his state more often as time wore on.

That irritated him. Today though, he didn't have a way to fix it – yet. "Professor, I need to get back home," he said quickly, choosing a somewhat underhanded tactic. "My relatives were running an errand, and I've been out a while."

A bit taken aback by Harry's abruptness, Flitwick nodded regardless, "Oh, of course. You really should come visit the castle, if you live so close. It won't be a bother at all."

"Would it be alright if some time I came to call at Hogwarts, for you?"  
"Oh yes, that would be quite alright," Flitwick noted absently, his brow still furrowed after seeing the two adolescents. "You can owl me, as well. With classes out and winter break going on, we may have a good length of time available to us without the clutter of children in the halls to deal with, if you do so soon. Just send it to me, care of Hogwarts, I'll get it shortly after."

"Sure, I'll send word your way." Standing, Harry started back down High Street with Raith's medicine, perhaps a little quicker than needed. "See you around, Professor."

"Goodbye, Harry," Filius called, canceling his privacy ward once the boy passed it. As the youth hurried by, the two older boys took a minute to appear to finish up what they were doing – curious really as they were doing nothing – and followed the young changeling. Intrigued, the professor disillusioned himself and followed the pair of adolescents as they followed Harry, noting they didn't seem intent on harming the young man, only watching. Not as worried, Flitwick still found it curious that older children would take an interest in Harry, when it was obvious he seemed a rather private child. Something else niggled at his mind though, something that made him think he'd forgotten something.

It was with a mild shock he noted Harry making his way to the Shrieking Shack, then passing like a ghost into the facing wall. The children ahead of him got spooked with the sight, and took off toward the town at a sprint, faces screwed up in fright. Filius on the other hand was remembering another young man, a werewolf who had been lodged here some time ago by Dumbledore... a werewolf who's good friend was James Potter.

The Shack, for all intents and purposes, had fallen into Dumbledore's care once Lupin had disappeared, and Potter had died.

Dumbledore then, had put young Harry there... who's hair Filius now recalled looked very much like James' own. That train of thought brought him to Lily of course – oh yes he had her eyes as well... Flitwick stumbled where he stood and gaped at the house.

_Harry Potter was a changeling? _Then... who were these relatives he spoke of?

As Filius returned to the castle to ponder his new discovery, mutterings began around the town. What exactly had they let take up residence in the Shack? What were they going to do about it?

Filius found himself preoccupied that entire afternoon, with thoughts on what to do with and about Harry Potter. From what he knew, the Potters had gone into hiding years ago and were then killed by Voldemort, yet it was common knowledge that the son had survived – despite no real public information of this being forthcoming. Dumbledore had staged a rather expansive hearing after the fact, with many a grand statement and reassuring word to the masses.

Filius wasn't in the compost market, and so liked to have his facts, rather than assurances. No evidence of the Potter's survival, any of them, had surfaced in eight years, so to be face to face with what had seemed the child of two of Hogwarts most esteemed graduates was a shock. That it happened to be the Boy Who Lived wasn't helping matters – nor the implications of his 'relatives'.

The base of the problem was information. Dumbledore was the obvious source – being at the head of the Order of the Phoenix. Flitwick had been tentatively approached regarding membership but staunchly refused; the illogic of Snape and his employment, the Potter's fate an inconsistency with knowledge versus hearsay, and finally the Order's own results kept him out of the Headmaster's favor. Before Dumbledore had really considered the offer, Flitwick had declined, stating the Order to be, "A vainglorious and pompous collection of posturing, vacuous claims." To say the Headmaster had become cooler to him as a result would be an understatement.

This left the diminutive professor out of the loop with most of the supposed Light's goings on, but in truth with what was published and reported, and what he could find out via his family and friends and their connections, Flitwick would not miss the lack. Bartemius Crouch's iron regime had swept through the magical world like the Dementors he used to apply his martial law, and truthfully Flitwick wanted none of it. That Dumbledore seemed to back the man's actions and policy, if not publicly then by inaction himself further cemented his neutral stance.

He had no love for Voldemort's followers or the Death Eaters, and he held a high contempt for the social climbers that had used the Imperius defense as well. Many of his closest friends and brightest students were lost to the madness of Voldemort's war, something that unlike Grindelwald's fame had hit much closer to home. Gellert's push for power had been a political and military effort, a front to secure knowledge and power in a literal sense – rulership. It was at least fought on traditional lines – political power backed by military, with armies fighting one another, unlike the coward's path taken by this Voldemort, who came in his wake. Terrorist actions and fear tactics against homes and people, rather than fighting an idea were the actions of a petty and fearful mind, in Flitwick's opinion. There was much more power to be had by the proper use of channels and protocol, yet he had chosen to use death and terror, handed out at random most of the time and with a lack of finesse. Filius could never respect that kind of decision.

Neutrals were held just above those who had declared themselves to the Dark though, and thanks to his standoffish attitude toward the Light's leader, his own blood status, and history of skill, Flitwick was never trusted as more than a simple teacher. This suited him fine.

That was, until recently, when a rather tight snarl of problems showed up and chatted with him in Hogsmeade. There was no question he'd run afoul Dumbledore if he pursued any history or further contact with the boy. What concerned him was the child's circumstances, and his sudden habitation at Hogsmeade. Could his nature as a changeling be why Albus had kept him hidden so long? To avoid scarring the child with the magical world's blood-racism? Or was the man hiding him because of it, hoping to minimize the boy's effect on the world? Surely knowledge that the Boy Who Lived was in truth a changeling would have quite the impact on the increasingly insular Ministry and its policies.

Then again, did Dumbledore know at all? Questions and possibilities swirled in Flitwick's mind, causing him no end of anxiety. Add to that the Headmaster's extended absence, and it only compounded.

Flitwick wanted answers, and the best source of them was an absent Dumbledore, or a child lived in the Shrieking Shack. Nothing would be accomplished though, by running out and demanding answers. That was a fool's way.

With a wry grin, Flitwick looked over his mail again, recalling a query from a familiar name. Ah yes. Aberforth... _Dumbledore_.

',',',',',','

Since Harry and the Redcaps had offered the Shack to their new friends and old acquaintances, Grissnath felt it only proper to do the same. Though the three didn't take him up on the offer often, the excursions into the forest did give Harry time to speak with and learn about the Centaurs, and specifically Bane's small herd.

One of the favorite things he'd learned, were hunting games.

The sun had just set after a long day of lessons on masking glamors, something Harry hoped to put to use soon. While he considered how and what way to do so, Raith and Rede dashed about in the underbrush, preparing for the night's sport. The small healing to Raith's foot left him well enough, so Harry didn't concern himself on that further. As Harry watched the shadows swallows the Fey, he adjusted to the coming dark as well. With the dying light, Harry gratefully took off his glasses and stretched, feeling the slow crawl of energy spread through him as his nature unwrapped itself through his bones and muscles.

Lessons with the Fey had sped up his awareness of these changes, and he was happy for it. Being aware of his own body's patterns seemed only helpful, considering the impromptu lesson of his vision. It also helped him to keep pace with the Centaurs, as his stride was much shorter, forcing him to lope along beside. Lane had been a marvelous teacher there, as Harry had lacked any kind of help in the realm of physical things.

That was also a specialty of Lane's. Running, the Puka had explained, wasn't just moving fast, and pushing your feet as hard as you could. To explain, he had Harry stand by a tree one day, and stand on his toes.

"Alright, now bounce."

Harry had blinked at the Puka, and jumped, before getting swatted on the back of his head, "Ow! What was that for?"

Lane sighed, rolled up his pant's legs and stood beside Harry. "Watch my feet, and do as I do." The gray-haired shifter had then tensed his feet so he stood on the balls of them, and then as he'd said, bounced. It was not the flat-footed jump Harry had done, but a controlled lever-and-recoil that seemed to spread from his feet to his calves. "When humans run, they often use too much of their feet. It's wasteful, but when walking slowly and standing, they need that strong support of the heel," Lane explained, balancing on one foot, slowly dropping his heel to the ground then rising back up.

Harry gingerly tried the bouncing position, and found his calves burning shortly after. Still, he began to see what the Puka meant. It took less out of him, used less muscles and Harry assumed was less tiring to bounce this way than do a flat-footed jump. It seemed his weight and the tensed muscle did all the work, like a spring.

Lane smiled as he watched the changeling make his conclusions. "Being curious of the mind does not preclude being curious of the body. How your self works, can sometimes be as enlightening as discovering how the universe functions."

Bemused, Harry made a note of that, but left it alone for later pondering. Currently he was rather taken by this new and interesting foot posture. Lane had then shown him how it could help with his day to day life, by running from tree to tree, apparently doing little more than bouncing from foot to foot and leaning his weight forward. "This," Lane explained idly while circling the tree Harry stretched against, "is roughly what a lope would be."

"Lope?"

Nodding, Lane explained, "A slow, easy but sustainable motion. A tracker's run. It's meant to use little energy, but be reasonably fast to keep prey moving and in sight."

Harry had caught on quickly enough, considering that Raith and Rede often seemed to simply disappear in a blur once they hit the woodland. It didn't jar his body like the heel-to-toe run did, and he suddenly had more use of his body for balance and attention for his surroundings. So this was how they moved so fast... "I can see why you know it, being a shifter. You could keep this up for a long time, if you needed to."

"It is useful, but just one of many small things," Lane had assured.

As Harry paced Bane, dashing through the underbrush easily, he was glad of those small lessons. Bane was impressed as well, and nodded affably to the changeling at his quieter, more relaxed gait. Tonight they were playing games with the Fey and Centaur, each with a set of three spears, their ends glamored into squashy pads that were soaked in red pigment.

Harry found it amusing that they were essentially playing Centaur paint ball.

Ixipti had nested in his hair for the trip, and was dimming herself so much she blended in with his hair. As his own changes had come, so had those in her. Surprisingly, if he were to try and compare her to anything or anyone, it would be Maeve. Her eyes were growing darker, closing to navy, while her skin had paled a bit more. Her appetites were the same though, and any candy or sugars that managed to cross the Shack's threshold may as well have been handed to her on arrival.

From her perch, the Fey tugged sharply to his left, and Harry motioned with an arm, leading Bane that way. Speeding up, Harry leaned forward and started adding more push to his lope, easily dropping into a smooth sprint that ate up the ground. Behind him, he could hear Bane's own gait move to a gallop. With a whoop, Harry launched himself over a small hill, its back side dropping steeply, letting him soar for a few moments through the chill air.

A flash of silver hair and surprised yellow eyes were the only things on his mind, as he hurled his spear down and to the right.

Two harsh slaps against his scalp had him curling into a ball as Harry landed, knowing Ixipti would flit off to keep herself safe. His defensive roll stung, and he lost his third spear, but also saved him being tagged by the one that crossed the air where he'd been with a low whistle. A part of him noted Raith's low curse, so he figured the sibling he'd tagged – if he didn't miss, was Rede.

This was both good and bad, Harry noted as he rolled again to the side, a pair of heavy iron boots crashing through the forest carpet where he'd been a moment before. Raith charged out into the wood like a bull, knocking over small tree and scrub alike as he cast about for Harry. Wanting no part of Raith so soon after his sister's tagging, and then missed throw, Harry slinked back and around the stump.

With a chirp of alarm and a sharp tug back on his bangs from Ixi though, he fell flat on his back as another spear whistled by. Swearing low, he realized that the battle lines had shifted, with the Redcaps outnumbered. Bane was aiming for him now, too. Not happy with being teamed up on, Harry rolled to his feet and concentrated. With a shiver his form muted its colors and he blended it more with the woodland scrub. It was as good a use as any, for the day's lessons. Collecting himself and listening for pursuit, Harry found none and so sprinted to where Rede had been tagged, seeing her nursing a slightly bruised shoulder.

"'Lo Rede," he greeted breathlessly, falling down beside the girl as she wrinkled her nose at him.

She only held the glare a moment before grinning, sharp teeth glinting, "How goes, Harry?"

Ixi chattered, sounding like bats quarreling a moment. "According to Ixi, better if I stop woolgathering. Brother dearest is a bit cross with me," he declared, leaning up to listen for the heavy steps of the other Redcap.

"He hates losing," Rede intoned in a matter-of-fact fashion, brushing the leaves off Harry's back. A moment's consideration, and she stuffed her remaining two spears into his quiver. "No sense me keeping these, they are yours by right," she muttered, crouching by the changeling's side.

Harry smiled his thanks, before his ears caught sounds approaching. Just in time he threw up a glamor, a small thing really but effective regardless. Where he and Rede had been, now only leaf litter appeared, as one of Bane's herd trotted by. Eyes and ears attentive, and spear held at ready, the Centaur was nearly taken by the spear that Harry didn't throw.

With a yowl befitting a hunting cat, Raith all but flew out of the surrounding wood, mouth agape and eyes flashing. Already on the defense, the sudden appearance of a feral Fey had the Centaur rearing and backing away, which only exacerbated Raith's state. Harry swallowed, seeing the young Redcap in a way he'd never before, and it frankly frightened him. Rede tensed and hissed by his side, "He's getting too into this," she muttered, as the scene unfolded.

Arms held out far to his sides and fingers hooked into claws ready to catch and hold, Raith circled the nervous Centaur with a low posture, ready to spring or sprint as the need arose. The herdsman didn't miss the Fey's lack of spear or his demeanor. He also didn't miss the easy unhinging of the Redcap's jaw, letting the truly impressive maw of teeth and a gape that could easily circle the Centaur's neck become apparent. With a curse Rede snapped the illusion Harry had cast, calling out and running toward her bloodlusted sibling.

Motion set off the Redcap, and Raith barreled into his sister, who easily caught and rolled him to the side, arms locked up with his own as the Fey thrashed a moment. As quickly as it started, Raith stilled, his usual cloudy, contemplative expression coming down over feral features like a mask.

Bane stepped out of the undergrowth at a gallop, and saw his kin's pale and stunned expression, the Redcaps abortive wrestling, and a gaping changeling, one hand on the ground and the other lightly gripping his own spear. Taking a breath, the Centaur clapped once, and declared loud enough to carry over them all, "Well, lets go get something to eat."

The announcement broke the tension in the small gully, and Harry stepped out to help Rede, then Raith back to his feet. Idly he noted the Fey's hands had become just as clawlike as they'd appeared. It seemed that when they said their glamors and nature were more in line with the physical, it was a very literal thing. As the three Fey relaxed and let the thrill of hunting die down, the Centaurs blew horns they held, signaling to the rest of their herd.

Shortly, the Troupe herd answering calls, and a few thrilling notes indicating that the other Fey were attending as well. All focused on the direction, and with a few sideways glances, broke into sprints and gallops, not yet quite ready to let go of the evening's activities.

Harry wasn't the first to arrive, but he also wasn't the last, which pleased him quite a bit. Ixipti crooned happily at his speed and finish, and he giggled at her in turn. Snatching off a stalk of some sweet, pickled vegetable, he handed it up and received a thankful chirp in return.

The feast was apparently a long-planned thing, and unlike the greater body of the Centaur herd, those of Bane's company had no qualms against tracking down and taking prey like boar and hare, both of which were turning over spits and roasting over fires. Heaps of vegetables and other more exotic Fey fare were also present, as the three of Harry's Troupe came to greet their companions there already.

A swarm of ghostlit Fey converged on Harry's head, all seeming to take a turn at dislodging Ixipti, who stolidly refused by clinging to the mop of Harry's hair with a deathgrip. It was five minutes before the laughing around the camp abated, and ten before Harry regained feeling in his scalp. As the lot settled to get their breath, Harry noted Raith's unease, and sat beside the Redcap. With a grin, Harry clapped Raith on the back, and the two shared water, while Rede cleansed the glamored paint from her skin and clothes, favoring the two with a smile of her own.

The feast was a huge affair, and even the more peculiar Fey were walking among the Centaur easily. Harry had figured Tock would be taken oddly, but it seemed Bane's herdmates were as inured to the Clockwork as they were to the Sluagh. While the night wore on, Tock removed her cloak and the depth of her odd form was made apparent, as she twisted and writhed in a dance that it seemed required the extra arms to perform correctly, being based on such symmetry of motion as to make him rethink each move, unbelieving. As her limbs and body twisted and moved, occasionally jerking and stopping suddenly, Harry noted that the odd musicbox noises that she made were being directed now, focused. She was dancing her own music. Grissnath seemed to catch on, and produced an instrument, a strange thing that required two sprites to assist with. Its low thrumm and sharp contrasting notes painted a backdrop, for the music Tock made by simply moving.

Looking back to the Clockwork, he realized with a start the older Fey was quite naked. It was the alien nature of her form that had masked this earlier – her torso was little more than what one would identify as just a rib cage. Below and behind her normal shoulder joints were the additional ones that her other set of arms sprang from. As she twisted about, Harry noted how they folded up into the rather hollow bend of her abdomen. Where normally one would expect a stomach, Tock had little more than her own spine it seemed, before her joints and body swelled below to flare out for her hips. With a fierce blush Harry's eyes snapped up, trying to find someplace safe to look, earning him a set of raucous giggles from Rede and a chuckle from Raith even. Harry busied himself with his water, and a slab of spiced wild pork that was too good to be real.

As the night progressed, the festivities grew as more figures came from the deep of the forest. Woodspirits, Wisps, flights of sprites and pixies, more herdless Centaur who had taken to a solitary life, and three mercenary Goblins joining the vast ring of firelight. It was into this gathering that the howling rush of bitter wind swept, sending small Fey into the air and trees, and the non-Fey among them huddling for warmth.

Through that wind, Harry could imagine he heard Maeve's voice.

It murmured, no words clear to his ears, but the tone spoke of danger. Enemies moving unseen and plans made by those in who kept out of sight. Images flitted through his mind – a feast not unlike this one, people running away from something horrible, the sound of thundering hooves... The impression of his godmother's words and the hazy vision faded with the wind's passing howl, and Harry found himself standing at the edge of the firelight between the wood and the gathered revelers, the full moon painting a swath of silvered snow, reminding him suddenly that it was winter's longest night... and he shivered. He felt something significant had happened... but what? Reaching up he grasped the pendant around his neck.

It had been a long time since the stone had felt so cold.

',',',',',','

It was a very _respectable_ laboratory.

In it, sat a very _respectable_ man.

He lead a very _respectable_ life, and did many a very _respected_ thing.

At least, he would if anyone outside the Asylum would believe a word of it. The Doctor sighed a long-suffering, soulful sigh and looked over the results before him. So many... it was hard to believe such things. A sardonic laugh slipped out of his mouth before the wry sneer slipped back into place and snipped off its tail. _Believe_.

Fairy tales are why he did, what he did of course. Daily. He did what he did to them every day, and all for the plan. His employer had asked, in a most persuasive manner, for him to... _mold_, a particular set of virtues, into a single little package. Why could he not use more suitable subjects? Oh no. Not to plan. Why must the virtues in question be... _distilled_, from that scum?

Oh, some were quiet noble, he'd heard. They were the height of their social ladders in cases!

Scum.

The world had laws. It ran on well-oiled tracks, built by thinking men, that evened out its rocky, stuttering spin. Those laws kept the world sane.

These... fairy tale people, they ignored that law.

Taking a stilling breath, the Doctor loosed all his irritation and mind-clouding thought and returned to his work.

The virtues worked off a system. He refused to call it magic... oh, no no no. Narrowed eye behind beady goggles stared unseeing at the papers on the desk. There was a logic to it though. It worked much like radiation, and like that lawful and understood force, could be directed. Concentrated with effort and understanding. Which is what he did.

"How is the subject?"

The question echoed across the broad expanse of laboratory, kept fastidiously clean and tidy for all its odd angles and strange devices, finally reaching the man that sat in a creaking and off-center chair. A very _respectable_ chair.

Turning with a highly arched brow, the man regarded the distant shadow that invaded his realm so elegantly. With a look that clearly stated the visitor should be glad of their unexpectedness, the rather disturbing man regarded the speaker with a smile, his eyes unreadable behind tiny goggles that seemed suctioned to his very eyes. "Oh, I daresay our little girl is doing splendidly. She's quite the fighter – resilient as we could have hoped," steepling his fingers in a time-honored tradition of those sharing his profession, the Doctor again flashed his teeth, knowing well how the crooked, yellowing enamels affected people.

Unseen details beyond the ring of light picking out the man at his desk shifted, as the figure seemed to regard him curiously. "And I trust we have not lost focus, Doctor?"

"Tch," with a dismissive wave, the man spun back around, a gnarl-jointed finger stabbing into a panel. "You wanted something special – and I'll deliver. Keep your end of the bargain and I'll keep mine."

"Indeed." Seemingly satisfied, the figure drew back into deeper darkness.

"Wait," the Doctor's call halted the figure, and they turned to see the strange, excitable man rubbing his long-fingered hands together. "You want to see _her_ of course? Why come all this way if not to _see_?"

It was nearly a minute of quiet that answered, the shadow-within-shadow before him unmoving. "We trust you to fulfill your task," the words were whispered, yet carried with all the force of a tornado, setting the Doctor back in his chair. "Of course, bravado isn't unheard of from your kind. Very well. Show us."

Regaining his aplomb, the man clapped once and swiveled his chair, spindly fingers flying over a series of old bronze keys, set in a stand made of oak and iron, with great glass tubes and strange valves that needed the occasional twist to function. Beyond him, opposite the intruding shadow, the wall shuddered and was suddenly shot with static, as an image built there.

Young, perhaps pretty once, a small girl rested on her side on a metal cot. Lank auburn hair framed her face, the length possibly to her chin were she to stand, or brush it, or wash. As her condition was, the hair was matted and clumped, full of dark stains and grime that could not be identified.

Her body was a roadmap of scars, criss-crossing in unreasonable patterns with no rhyme or reason. There were some that seemed hallmarks of a precise hand, carving odd shapes here or there along her arms, and the curve of her hip. Only her face was relatively unscarred – meaning there were no great furrows nearly a finger-width deep in the flesh there. She breathed easily as they watched, her chest only just showing the hints that yes, the child would one day be a woman, rose and fell in a slow, even pace. Despite that deceptively live action, her eyes stared unseeing before her, the irises a flat, matte amber, lacking depth or spark.

Turning to see his employers reaction, the Doctor was just in time to see the arcing wave of force that threw him against a wall. "What mockery is this? _This_! We betray our world to your kind, subject those of our own to your tortures and experiments for... _this_?!"

Groaning and sputtering, the Doctor looked up, hand going to the side of his head and coming back bloody. "Just wait. You won't be disappointed," he assured, hoping that his words were enough to stave off another attack. He was a thinker, after all, not a fighter.

As promised the image feed shifted, and showed the recent little girl standing, wavering. She was dressed in the simplest of dresses, a white shapeless thing that could have been a sack with a seam ripped and holes cut out. The room around her was a dome, huge in its scope but bare of any detail. Occasional windows sat like spider's eyes along its curvature, watching her.

The benign nature was belied by a harsh light, spearing out and striking the unsteady girl. "Here," the Doctor coughed, regaining his feet with a grunt. "Here we stimulate our tests."

"You mean simulate."

Snorting, the old man merely shook his head. "No no no, not at all. Trust me to mean precisely what I say in this matter."

As they watched, the Doctor's demeanor shifted once the little girl's wavering became a kind of seizing twitch. "There! Now, see what my work has done."

From a distance, the figure's voice came, cold and sharp, "I see nothing but a little... girl..." the strength behind the worlds faltered at what was shown. Around the girl, darkness literally billowed out, horrid shapes and faces shot with cruel light and deeper slashes of midnight surged and eddied about. At its nexus, the girl – crying as her breath came in great leaping fits. The view shifted, focused on her face as the tears reddened, then seemed to mist off her skin as if striking hot iron. "She has entered the reactive stage," the Doctor said reverently, his fingers peaked below his chin once more.

It became apparent then that the twisting figures and leering, snapping faces weren't the result of the room – but the girl herself. Somehow she was manifesting it, but to what end was unclear. Her previously dead, staring eyes darted about, the haze of misted bloody tears about her coiling while the darkness that surged out of her gown, down to the floor and back up in a great gout plumed up into figures that seemed to look only at her. "Watch closely," the Doctor said in a voice half-reverent. "_She_ will awaken soon."

"She?"

With a grim leer, the Doctor simply nodded. "Stage two."

As if his words were the trigger, the little girl's face abruptly changed. The fear was swept off as if simply erased, leaving her eyes dead and widely dilated again. Within their depths, shone the very light glowing in the eyes of the liquid nightmares all about her. A fierce crack echoed about the recording, the result of the feed encountering a heavy dose of static, but the focus never left the girl. As abruptly as the change in her expression came, so did other things...

Swirling before, the red mist snapped to her skin and seemed to recoil, an almost elastic, cloth-like motion. This became a reality as the odd vapor literally took on the form of a deep red cloak, formless and deep-hooded, that ran down to tatters as it approached the girl's ankles. As it did so, the odd torrent of inky black that had formed the monstrous images cut off, and left the shapeless legion howling and lunging, intent on the girl. She was as intent to avoid them, her expression blank and stony, despite the near-impossible feats of strength and dexterity she was performing, all to escape the touch of that madness-made-form.

"You can see the results of our augments in her physical reactions. Everything initially... _strange _about her has been concentrated into her body itself. The hood, as far as we can tell, is a fundamental memory form. She manifests it as a concept of self-identity. We've tried to remove it before – impossible. It's not real, as far as our tests are concerned. It is, because she wants it to be," the Doctor intoned, as the girl leapt and spun from the grasp and teeth of monsters that only seemed to have form when they were intent on her blood. "The same holds true for those... _things_. We stimulate her fear," smirking slightly at his now-apparent meaning, the Doctor turned back to the screen. "When we do, they occur."

Deep in shadow, the form shook its head slowly. "What use to us is this?"

"Fear is an easily manipulated thing, my dear employer. Fear is what we want it to be, and for her," nodding toward the screen where a desperate young girl fought for her life, the Doctor smiled broadly. "Fear is very, very powerful."

On cue, the little figure seemed to sway on her defense, a triumphant howl sounding as a maw set to close over her. With a swinging backhand, the image of darkness parted with an anguished screech. Suddenly, the little girl had an axe, archaic and chipped, single bitted but ornately carved of both wood metal in her hands. "The axe is like the hood. It's essentially her. It's invisible to X-ray. Like the cloak, were she to go unconscious with them manifested, they disappear. Ah, yes... Stage three," the Doctor sighed, settling in his chair.

Whatever intent the room that held the girl had before, changed abruptly as she went on the offensive. Everywhere she swung the axe, impossibly fast and accurate, shockwaves of force sped out and rendered shadow to tatters. Beyond the inky images, the room suffered as well – great gouts of cement dust blasting free as its walls were impacted with such force as to collapse the supporting depth of insulative material. Light enveloped the walls in a rising spectrum, as a gauge filled to the side of the screen. Already it was only three-quarters full. The Doctor indicated this, as his eyes were raptly fixed on the girl. "This indicated the room's integrity. The lights you see activated to protect it, so we could continue recording."

"You sound as if the room was destroyed."

"It was," the Doctor replied, with relish. On the screen, the beasts spun and dodged with the girl, their myriad forms coalescing into a single, less-indistinct outline as time and the little girl rendered them ineffective. "Here, we begin to see the base-form of her subconscious fear," the man stated, almost bored since his attention was given to something other than the girl. "This is important, as with this fundamental ideal, we can as I said before, guide her fear."

Resolving itself to a bestial form, the shadow darted and leapt, sometimes on four, sometimes on two feet. Always though its one, cruelly glinting eye shone out from a face split in two with a maw of darkness its void. The form changed at those times as well, and as the horde of shadows became a single one, a distinct change occurred in the melee. "We must regulate here, or there will be... psychological issue, we would rather avoid."

"What do you mean?"

Laughing, the Doctor waved to the screen as if it were reason enough, "Such power! You truly think she could tap into it without this fear? And if she lopped off that shadow's head? Oh no. Nightmares exist to let us overcome out deepest fears – and we can't have that." Cackling, the Doctor leaned back again, and the display zoomed out, showing what his words would mean.

More lights speared out from the watching eyes. Each time they hit the girl, she screamed and turned, as her psyche was forced backwards, her subconscious denied its release in trying to put down the darkness inside her. Each time the legion surged forth, and she was pushed harder, deeper into her rage and fight. More tears were wept, and the cloak nearly dripped as it billowed out, its own interior full of snapping maws and evil, glinting eyes. "And now... Stage four!"

With a roar the interior of the domed room seemed to simply waver, as a bubble of force washed out of the girl. Something seemed to go very wrong, at its center, as the entirety of the tableau shifted, stilled and went silent. Then, as one the girl _and the shadows_ rushed the deepest gouge in the room, battering and battling against the failing barriers. "There is within us all, a critical point of failure," the Doctor intoned as the girl swung the axe in a flurry, leaving great rakes and fractures in the wall itself beyond the barrier. Shadowstuff surged, bent into those and then heaved, the entire wall buckling under the assault. "When pushed beyond the self, beyond the fear, beyond all the doors we build inside, there is only _survival_. She is what we've made here. Taking all your fairy tales, ripping out their hearts, and then stitching it up into a lovely, red hood."

With another roar, this one from the collapsing room itself, the feed went blank and black. "It took us an entire day, nearly four squads of our hired security and thirty wizards to subdue her. That was after she annihilated the lower levels of the facility, literally carving a path through the Asylum toward the surface. She is what you want, and will get, because frankly there is _nothing left_."

He nearly laughed when the figure hiding in his office's shadows gasped. "Oh yes. She took no pity on anyone or anything on her way up. Being at the bottom of a stairway a juggernaut is climbing leaves little avenue for escape.

"We will rebuild of course," the Doctor added silkily, his yellowed teeth glaring from his smile. "As per our agreement. You get the lovely child – my finest work, and I get to continue my research. Perhaps in time I can offer you more children? The possibilities are limited only by the atrocities we can perform, of course. And this world is ripe-to-bursting with it!"

Quietly, the once-forceful figure seemed to shake, its voice uncertain, "What did you do to her, to make this... this monster?"

The Doctor's teeth ground at the insult to his work, but he relaxed his tense posture almost at once. "There are time-honored and very finely honed practices which have been used for ages to tear down the defenses of the mind. Many are even more potent when used against young children – young girls in particular. In short – I did my best.

"You wanted a tool, a weapon, and one that would react to the particular field-mechanics of those unclean and unnatural things you gave me to work with. She," the Doctor indicated the now dark screen, "will react to them as you've seen. Fear has been built into her with a very fine trigger. Once you release the safety, she will react as you've seen."

"How can we stop her?"

Sighing, as if explaining something vastly complex to a child, the Doctor regarded his employer with barely concealed scorn, "You don't. She stops herself. You wanted a single target to be utterly unable to stop or defend. I made a young girl, who's presence would tear at the heartstrings of even the most hardened, that bears inside her soul the veritable legion and vengeance of hell. She will tear through what you loose her on, then as her fears work uncontrolled after, annihilate herself.

"Delicate, simple, perfect," he said with a smile, leaning forward against his desk, elbows resting there. "Satisfied?"

It was nearly a minute later that the figure nodded, slowly. "Yes. There is a rule that you've followed, and I cannot fault your work in that way. Only humans can become heroes. Only humans can slay the true monsters, otherwise the struggle and quest is pointless. Your... perversion of an old tale for the purpose we sought is a gesture we have not missed. How soon can you have her integrated?"

The Doctor clapped in glee, "Oh, well that depends really. She's very volatile, and will need a handler of sorts. How long will you need her to sleep once she's in place?"

"Perhaps three, four years at the longest."

"Oh yes, she will certainly need a handler," the Doctor murmured, before going quiet animated, scratching something on a sheet of paper which he fed to a slot in his desk. "I have just the person... and I will contact you with details. My work calls – I'm sure you can see yourself out." Apparently dismissed, the uncertain form simply wavered and faded with a shiver. Still muttering, the Doctor tapped his chin, deep in thought, "Oh I do believe our young miss has been long overdue a visit to her... grandmother." With a hearty chuckle, the very _respectable_ man turned and set about arranging for a very, very _talented_ young girl to be ensconced within the British Isles.

',',',',',','

A/N: Those familiar with Everafter will possibly recognize the Little Girl. (Re) Introducing Red (Tentative working name - Rose), the Big Bad, and Dr. Crooked (Simply Doctor here). Original character plotting by Endling for them.

This is a build chapter. I wasn't happy with it but we're almost done. I'm not in the habit for asking for reviews, but if you find something pertinent to say, I welcome it.

There is a possibility that I'll section Grimm into separate stories, between Pre-Hogwarts and the Year spread.


	8. Darkest Bloom

**Darkest Bloom**

_"There are those that think the Unseelie hold no respect for life, care nothing for it. This could not be more false. We are simply the other half of the cycle, the half that reminds those within the mortal coil to treasure what they have. We treasure it as well – the deeply glittering crimson, the vast images painted within a mind's eye, the drummed tattoo of panicked feet. Life is fleeting, and we chase it with glee as it is found." -Maeve_

Harry would look back on those seasons before his tenth birthday as some of the richest, most detailed and easy times of his life. Learning with the Fey, learning to embrace that part of himself, and the discoveries of youth colored his memory a gentle rose hue. He had been happy, truly happy, something that he'd never really known. He had friends, a home that was his own and wasn't ruled by hate and disgust. He had the respect of those close to him, and a sense of his own ability – a confidence in himself. In short, Harry's life was good. He should have known better.

Though he'd always recall that time fondly, there were a few bumps that marred that photograph, warnings of what was going on behind his idyllic memories. He would see later that they were the hints of a monster testing the boundaries of that album, lurking in a gaping hole that sat behind the memento.

His first clues were simple enough things, really, but a simple act had thrown things deeply out of control.

',',',',',','

"It's the small things, really," Filius said, leaning back against a great, pine-needle shedding and pitch-stinking evergreen tree. Harry breathed in deeply, taking in the scents of the small stream nearby, with their fishing bobs and the algae curling like green smoke in the lees of roots. It was, as far as he could tell, a perfect day.

He and the Charms Master had made a habit of coming out to the forest after meeting last fall, it being the height of summer now. Though the season wasn't to his liking really, Harry couldn't fault the diminutive professor's statement, particularly with Ixipti lazing and snoring on his head. "Yes sir, it is," he agreed amicably, reflexively pulling at the rigged pole he had and snaring a fish.

It had been moments like this that defined the dynamic between the two. Mundane, simple, essentially _living_ things. Filius could have taught the boy some of the minor tricks of magic sooner than his schooling began, but unlike just about every other magical child he'd been in contact with, Harry had shown no interest. Oh, he knew about the boy's Fey tutors – and approved – but then, he had no real talent for glamors outside of the small Goblin traits he had. Useful, but nothing on the scale of Harry's potential likely.

Not that he mentioned it, but Flitwick could see easily enough whoever the young man's Fey blood had come from was a force to deal with.

That on its own made what he needed to tell the young man all the harder, as he had no idea how the youth would respond. "Do you recall that I said there was something I needed to speak with you about, Harry?" Prompting the changeling's attention, Filius looked over to the young boy, painting on a small smile.

Harry looked up from his fish, debating if he should eat it before of after returning home, when the professor's question pulled him from his musing. Peering up, he nodded and struck the fish's head sharply with a stone. No way to catch enough to 'share' properly with the Redcaps, "I remember. You seemed rather upset about something."

"I did?" Flitwick's brows shot up, wrinkling his already furrowed brow further, causing Harry to grin.

"Well, your letter was written with such a messy hand, and then you nearly beat the owl to the Shack," Harry explained, shrugging. Peering under a rock, he glamored a small spark of ghostflame, to illuminate the darkness there. It was a minor glamor, feeding off ambient magic to cause light, much as a candle did wax – in small cases at least. Seeing a particularly fat worm, he speared it with the hook in his hand and twirled it about once before repeating the process. The trapped creature writhed, and frowning, Harry shook it a moment, before he was satisfied it would bleed into the water well enough to maybe tempt another fish. "So tell me what has you worried?"

Filius watched as the young man carelessly manhandled the annelid on his hook, shaking off the odd chill. "Oh. Right, you remember the letter I mentioned from Aberforth? Dumbledore?"

"Albus' brother, creepy old guy in the Hog's Head?" Harry was quite sure he knew which of the myriad and rather irritating humans of the town Filius meant, but wanted to be sure. As often as he willingly associated with the people, most of them tended to blur together in time. Vaguely recalling a letter talking about the man being worried on his safety, Harry missed the first pull at his hook, "_Bixtl_," he swore, checking his lure. Tossing it back into the shallows he kept a light hand on the pole. "I think you mentioned something about wards?"

Smirking at Harry's use of Fey language, Flitwick nodded, "Indeed. Well there is a bit of good and bad to my news, and why I was upset about this, as you mentioned.

"Bad news first – mind your pole," Harry instinctively jerked, too hard in fact, landing the gasping fish between them to both their surprise. "Aberforth has asked me to ward the Shack, feeling you could use more protection than just four walls."

Harry shrugged, picking up his stone and caving in the fish's skull, tossing it over with the other, "Makes sense I suppose," he replied, watching the little professor. "But that doesn't seem like bad news."

"Indeed," Flitwick replied, distractedly watching the fish bleed out on the grass. "Well, Aberforth has asked me to also raise a dark creature ward, along with the others."

Considering this a moment, Harry's eyes narrowed as he looked out across the slow-moving stream. The sun was harsh on the water, and summer played hell with his vision but he dealt with it well enough, during the bright hours. Bright and dark. "You mean, that ward is something that will affect me and mine."

Flitwick sighed, "Aberforth doesn't know or suspect you, the Fey have been very good at hiding themselves," he countered, but knew what Harry wanted to hear. Still, he had to try to talk the young boy's anger down, "That particular ward is meant to give those within time to prepare and some protection from things more common, that may attack a home. It's just a legacy issue and definition that makes it work on the Unseelie."

"That doesn't help that it'd keep me and mine out of our own home," he replied, searching for another fat worm for his hook. Sighing, he gave up for the moment and leaned back with the professor against the knotty, itchy, smelly tree. "So he doesn't know, then?"

"That's the good news, though. I don't think he has a clue yet," Filius agreed, breathing a sigh. "It's just a commonly included ward, really."

"I can't let him put it up," Harry replied, and met the little man's curious eyes. "Not only do I have no other place to go, but the Redcaps and Ixipti would be out as well. This ward can't go up."

Reaching up and rubbing at his eyes behind the glasses, Flitwick grimaced. "I may not have a choice. Aberforth said in no uncertain terms that he would be there to inspect the wards as I cast them, making me think this is more for Albus' sake than his own planning."

Making an indistinct, displeased noise that Flitwick strongly suspected to be something akin to a Sluagh's swearing, Harry nodded. Outwardly, mostly for Flitwick's sake he was calm and thoughtful, but inside he was seething. Aberforth was again interfering in his life, something that had been blissfully absent for months since the man's last visit.

It had to be the rumors, Harry reasoned.

Since he'd begun spending time in the town, the people had begun reacting more and more strongly to him. He knew it was due to what Rede had explained was just his own nature, the essence of the Unseelie in him literally twisting at their minds. Tock had regretfully informed him that he was far to young to fully mask his incident glamors in that fashion, stating that doing so would not only stunt his ability to do any Fey glamors later in life possibly, but also have dire consequences on his actual maturation. He was partially Fey thanks to Maeve's taking him as a changeling, she had explained, and simply trying to turn off that part could be dangerous. It made sense, and he stopped badgering her about it.

He and the Fey that regularly came and went to the Shack took pains to not cross the town, or when they did so, to glamor and make it brief. Still, it was like there was a self-perpetuating rumor mill there. No matter what he did, how much he tried to minimize it, there was always some talk or snipe about him. Aberforth must be worried there was some... _influence_ affecting him. Maybe the Shack was haunted, he supposed? Bah. No point trying to understand how these people thought. Best to just minimize or avoid the damage, Harry decided.

He bade farewell to Flitwick, as the professor begged off, saying he had grading and preparations to return to. Though the castle was empty of students during the deep summer months, life went on for the professors. Flitwick Harry had learned liaised with the Goblin Nation as his capacity for Charms Master, and sometimes lectured internationally in dueling circles.

"Such a big world, it seems," Harry mused, picking up his fish after the little professor disappeared with a pop. Sighing thoughtfully with the man gone, Harry glamored a small blade to gut the fish, spilling the offal on the ground. Digging about in the cradle of the fish's ribs a moment, he pulled free the animal's heart with a snap of veins. Bending down, he squeezed the heart, making a circle with blood in the grass. Peering at the twisted, still glistening heap in the middle, he chewed a lip.

Harry poked the liver with a stick and flipped it over, narrowing his eyes. "Not good," he murmured, seeing the patterns of expiring life spreading out from the organ into the mesh energized by the blood. Seeing magic and patterns like this was something Grissnath had taught him recently, and he wasn't excellent at it – the Sluagh suggested more complex things for real readings – but still, just a little life and its binding to the web of all things could be easy enough to use as a compass point.

The fish's liver was saying that he'd do well to either keep his head well down, or turn the man's focus against himself.

Wrinkling his nose, Harry heaved a sigh. Scattering the entrails, he flayed the other fish and took it a few steps into the wood, pinning it to a tree with a quick stab of a limb. A loud trill and screech later and a few small Fey arrived, chirping at him happily, if sleepily. It was hard light out still. With a start he saw some very brilliantly colored among the stragglers, and could feel the clash in his essence on them. Summer Fey.

Shaking off his unease at them, Harry backed to his own fish and tore hungrily at the flesh. No point letting it get too warm, he reasoned. That was the joy of fish in the summer, after all. He grinned when a small hand reached down from his hair, and he tore off a strip for Ixipti.

',',',',',','

"That insufferable old... _ugh_!" Rede kicked at the wall, denting the wood heavily before spinning around, fuming. "_Fralth_!"

Harry stifled at grin at her reaction, knowing it was warranted. He'd called them all to the Shack that night to discuss Flitwick's news, and what he'd picked up from his limited use of what Grissnath called haruspicy. The Sluagh was impressed he'd managed to glean anything at all, but didn't question the reading after asking Harry on the patterns and dissipation. Life flows were easy to read, which is why even the dull, unmagical human masses used to use them, he had taught Harry.

To add to Harry's irritations with Aberforth, Raith and Rede had told him of the children. Apparently they had noticed some few of the town's younger ones consistently watching the Shack, and Harry's comings and goings. Being Fey and with their predacious natures, it was easy enough to notice such things. When they'd seen the young go back to the Hog's Head though, their suspicions had been confirmed. Though Aberforth wasn't acting overtly to keep an eye on Harry, he had others working for him.

The entire situation sat badly, something the young changeling agreed with. "We can't let the ward go up. I like Marshlight fine," Harry said, nodding to Grissnath, "But its not mine, and I won't impose."

"You know my doors are open, but the fact remains this is an insult, Heir," the Deadguised murmured, his voice cast just loud enough to hear.

Wincing slightly at the address, Harry nodded. "Right. So we need to figure out how to not get locked out of our own home." Looking about at the gathered Unseelie, Tock and Lane, the changeling sat on his glamored chair and considered a moment. "The reading wasn't very clear or detailed, but I got those two results," he offered to the room, getting some nods in return.

Rede perked up at this, looking to Raith significantly. The two sat that way, staring a moment before she grumbled and stood again. Harry raised a brow at her, waiting to be included. Blushing a bit, Rede shrugged an apology, "I think Raith and I will work on the 'turn it against him' part. We'll think on that, while you lot try to reason on the other one."

Nodding, Harry got up, unsatisfied to sit really. His energy was too high, and he was too nervous to be still long. Gathering up Rede in a hug, he pulled Raith over and the three stood that way for a count of moments. "Well get this figured out," he assured them, knowing that it upset them as much as himself. Raith nodded against his shoulder, and patted him on the back slowly.

"We'll go work on this," the reticent Redcap said, taking his sister's hand and heading for the door.

Starlight winked back from the open portal, as Rede turned and flashed Harry a grin, "We just think better with full stomachs."

"Go on," Harry laughed, making shooing motions.

Returning to the room, he perched on the arm of his chair, as Ixipti flitted about, unsettled. The whole atmosphere set her off, and the little Fey was in fits but hiding it well. "Ixi, do you want to go out and relax? We'll figure this out."

The little one lighted on his knee, and peered up at him. "No, I will stay," she said simply, before going back to tracing patterns in the air overhead. Harry sighed, somewhat relieved really. As much as he hated bothering the Fey he called family these days, it still made him happier when Ixipti was near. She'd been with him the longest of any of them, and whether he liked it or not, she was the best at reading him and knowing what he needed. Right now, he needed the things that meant home to him close by. Ixi knew she was one of those things.

Grissnath and Tock and Lane had their heads close together muttering quickly, so that Harry could only catch a few words. Mumbling about being left out, he glanced at Lane, who settled on the couch finally, content to leave the others to their talk. The Puka met his gaze and shrugged slightly, "What's to do? I'm not for this kind of planning, so I'll leave it to the thinkers or the schemers. Wondering where you fit in there?"

Blinking, Harry nodded.

"You're part of the doers," the Puka said with a grin. "Someone has to keep the rest of them all on task, after all."

Harry considered that a moment, before shrugging. He didn't quite understand the sometimes enigmatic Puka, but the ease and confidence in his odd notions left the young changeling usually trusting him. In a way he could somewhat understand the shifter's words, as he did after all set them all on task with finding a solution, but still...

Harry was pulled from his drowsing contemplations by the return of the Redcaps, who's faces were still slightly stained from their 'thinking'. Yawning, knowing dawn would be coming soon, the changeling stretched and greeted them quietly.

From their huddle, Tock motioned the two over to join her, Grissnath and Lane. Shaking the dew from their clothes, the siblings huddled with the others, as Harry returned to his drowsing, Ixipti humming contently in his ear. He'd tried to get involved with the heavier thinkers, but couldn't keep up and frankly, was bored. It was also apparent that he was just getting in the way, so he took to listening in, then finally just laying and waiting. Being the youngest of those in his Troupe sometimes had its downside, he resolved for not the first time.

Dawntides of the coming sunrise and the high summer day leeched his energy away, and he napped as the Troupe continued on into the morning, the Sluagh taking a moment to make some vervain tea for them. It was noon when Rede shook him awake, looking weary and as tired as he felt. "Move over, you," she murmured, and he made room, as she settled beside him. Glancing for Raith, he saw the other Redcap already snoring slightly in the single chair by the couch's head, nearest him.

When nightfall came, the three younger Fey roused themselves to eat and return to discussions, the adults having stayed on with their planning through the day. Grissnath, who Harry had no way to tell if he was tired or not with his gaunt, waxy, dead complexion sat heavily on the chair Raith had abandoned and regarded the three with a dull yellow eye. "I think we're in agreement with Rede on the plan," he said in a gravelly whisper, making Harry turn to the still bleary Redcap.

Rede stared at the Sluagh, blinking a moment before shaking herself. "Oh. Right, plan," yawning, she shook her head hard again, her beret-like cap slipping before she settled it. "Any other changes or additions then?"

Grissnath nodded, motioning to himself, and the others, "We'll be helping by taking down the protections."

"Alright," the Redcap murmured, before squawking as Harry elbowed her. "Hey! Oh right you were asleep.

"The rough plan Raith and I thought up, was to make Aberforth worry about himself, so he won't bother us," she explained. "I figure if he's more worried about his pub, he'll forget the Shack long enough for your friend Flitwick to do his wards and leave out the one that would make a problem."

Harry nodded, but still didn't see the main point, that being how to turn the man's attention. He said as much, and only got a vicious grin from Rede, before she turned to the Sluagh, who nodded. Harry stifled his irritation at being left out, when Rede spoke up, "Well, if he's too busy worrying about dark creatures attacking his bar, then he won't have time to worry on you."

"What if he only thinks the attack, as you said, is a town threat?" Harry hazarded, brow knit. Ixipti flitted off uncertainly, sleepily looping toward the kitchen and sugar. "If he thinks it's a general threat, he'll only be more focused on warding the Shack."

Grissnath favored him with a crook-toothed smile, "Good thinking, but we'll manage to make it seem very personal," the Sluagh assured.

Considering their rough outline a moment, Harry nodded. "Alright. So we'll divert him, and sneak Flitwick in under his nose. How do we distract him?"

Rede reached up as Ixipti came fluttering back, a cube of sugar in her arms and a sleepy look on the tiny Fey's face. Ixi settled on the outstretched hand out of habit, munching her breakfast idly, before Rede nudged her. "_Bixtl_, eating here," she snipped, causing Rede to giggle.

"So Ixi, want to help annoy the old human?" Rede's address for Aberforth was the usual way the Fey had come to speak of anyone in the town that seemed aged above the point of having children, though often enough that seemed to be most of the community. Some days Harry wondered if the entire place was made of old humans and children.

Grumbling in her chiming trill, Ixipti nipped off a corner of the cube in her hands, "After breakfast," she announced, to a room full of snorting laughter.

',',',',',','

They didn't move against the Hog's Head after breakfast, as Ixipti had suggested, but shortly before midnight the next day. Harry's missive to Flitwick regarding their plan wasn't terribly descriptive, for good reason, but did ask that he be ready soon to cast all the wards on the Shack that Aberforth had requested – minus one.

The main irritation to their plan was the placing of the pub, mainly that it was on the other side of Hogsmeade from the forest. Thanks to that the Fey had little in the way of cover to approach from. Glamors to obscure them, blending them into the grasses and fields helped, but Harry would have felt better with the cool weight of the forest at his back.

Tock stood forward of their group then, and flicked a hand in a complex pattern, a chiming issuing out over the field they stood in. As the notes died off lesser Fey, nearly three dozen of them, rose out of the grasses and lit the area in an ethereal, false moonlight. As they did so, Ixipti patted Harry once and flitted up and off, chattering to the Fey as she darted in and between them. Returning shortly, she hovered before Harry, "We're ready," she chirped and he reached out, letting her alight on his hand.

"Be careful. No taking silly chances and getting hurt."

"Fey dodge easy," she assured him with a wicked grin, before leaning in and nuzzling his cheek, taking to the air after. Chuckling, Harry turned to the others.

"Ixi and her lot are ready," he called, and Tock made another pealing chime, this one carrying rather far.

On her signal, she, Lane, Grissnath and Harry began to glamor ghostflame and hurl it onto the pub's wards, watching as the parasitic flames stuck to and fed on the magic the barriers pulsed with. When a ward snapped under the strain and drain, the glimmer beneath the fire would go out and the Fey flames would dissipate in a sizzling hiss. Focusing, Harry lobbed another ball of the blueish fire, this one actually making it to the pub itself, as Ixipti and her Fey kin swooped into the now-unwarded pub.

Immediately there was a call and series of shouts, as the bar reacted to the sudden appearance of three dozen angry, swarming Fey. Harry simply hoped she didn't get hurt, and on Tock's signal halted his assault.

Responding to the call Tock had made, Rede and Raith bounded in a leisurely but determined lope around the edge of the town. Their work was more strenuous, though all the glamors Harry had cast did leave him feeling drained. Instead of the more external methods, the Redcaps had a decidedly physical task ahead of them – and so needed to feed first, as irony would have it.

Jaws gaped and bloody teeth gleaming, while their hair sat in wet ropes about their faces and necks drenched with the hunt, the two didn't seem to care about the bloody trails that ran down their faces. Wide, grinning maws, stretched as the two bounded to the pub and its cellar door, as the Redcaps attacked it with purpose. Claws ripped and teeth tore at the old wood, as the siblings made short work of the barrier, literally tearing it to splinters.

While they breached Aberforth's stock cellar, the Fey inside had built the late-night patrons to a fever pitch, which was the point after all. Tock watched attentively as the remaining ghostflame ate at the building, not consuming the material of the pub at all, but rather the magic that held it together. Remembering the way some of the houses in Hogsmeade could only be held together with magic, Harry had to admit that ghostfire arson may actually be more damaging than normal fire – especially when humans and wizards couldn't see it unless they knew how to look.

With a crash and more noise, people finally started streaming out of the pub, too harried by the Fey to stay. Spells lit the night, and Harry jerked, watching with anxiety. A ratcheted wail to his side let him know that Tock had seen as well, and was recalling the Fey. It was also a signal to the Redcaps, to finish their business and get out.

The Hog's Head creaked, as a roofing support old beyond consideration lost its magic and disintegrated into fine dust. A section of the building's ceiling followed, the noise masking the hasty retreat of two very satisfied looking Redcaps. Considering their job was to devour all the bar's stock of food and alcohol, Harry had to admit their feeding frenzy would have made Dudley green with envy. Not that he wasn't already, he mused with a smirk.

From the field, they saw the Fey all wink out and dim, signifying they'd stopped letting themselves be seen. The bar's patrons growled and shouted, none louder than Aberforth though, as he shook a hand at the roof as it creaked again. Grissnath snapped the glamors of blue flame loose from them, and the lights winked out. They'd not wanted to destroy the bar outright – merely make a mess of it for a while.

The five Fey and Ixipti's kin watched their work, the glade again awash in false light. Small Fey flitted about excitedly, happy to have had the chance to play with humans, in a way that wouldn't get them in trouble. Harry was happy they'd bought themselves time to plan and prepare, with giving Aberforth a reason to focus on his own home, and not Harry's.

',',',',',','

Flitwick came to them a week later, and with a terse kind of efficiency, set the wards around the Shack with barely a word. Harry could tell easily enough the diminutive professor knew that they were involved in Aberforth's misfortune, and his lack of remorse for that seemed to irritate the little man. Despite their unstated disagreement, he came and set the magics, and once done shared tea with the Fey, his chilly demeanor thawing in short order.

Regardless of the lack of dark creature ward, the stifling feeling of all the human magics surrounding the Shack almost had Harry and the Fey repeating their actions against Aberforth on the Shack itself. Still, it was almost peaceful, with the town focusing on something other than the Shack.

"Was it really necessary, though?" Filius asked, as he walked with Harry down to the shops some weeks after the incident. The professor and changeling hadn't spoken on it since the day before and the raising of the wards, but something seemed to stick in the diminutive man's mind. Harry turned and regarded Flitwick a few moments, before sitting against a fence bordering the main way.

"I think so," he said quietly, staring around for the children he knew were about. Despite Aberforth's preoccupation, the young ones had a single-minded kind of interest on him. Rede had mentioned money and pecking orders, things Harry didn't quite understand.

Flitwick had managed to secure his vault key for him, some time the winter after they'd met. It was a small thing he hid in the Shack, as he didn't need it often. The half-blood teacher had balked when he found that Harry had no means for money, and offered his own to help, but also said he'd ask about the young man's family money as well.

This was an odd concept for Harry, as he didn't realize he could have money. Weren't his parents poor? It had been what the Dursleys had said.

Regardless of those old ideas, apparently he had what was called a trust vault, which he learned he could owl and take small withdrawals from as needed. Despite the addition to wizarding money to his life, the young changeling didn't quite understand the kind of motivations that it would make to the other children. He had enough to eat, enough to do now with tutors and the forest, and so there was no real need for it. What was the difference?

Seeing none of the spies, Harry motioned beside him. "If we didn't, what choices did I have? If I moved to Marshlight, someone would have noticed. Then that would endanger Griz... the Centaur aren't an option. Could I live at the castle?" When Flitwick pursed his lip and shook his head, Harry offered him a grin. "We just distracted him a while. It'll be ok."

"Look at this, Harry," the little man said, offering him what appeared to be a rather odd newspaper. Turning it about in his hands, the title was resolved to be _The Daily Prophet_, certainly not one he was familiar with Vernon perusing from his time there.

"_Pixies Plunder Pub_" the article began, and Harry's brow furrowed, as he read on.

_Recently, I had the strange task of reporting the story of what has been a rare occurrence since the enactment of the Statute of Secrecy._

_As the readers well know, activities from the less visual and more ephemeral Fey have been on the decline for centuries. Species like pixies, goblins and nymphs are still at large of course, but the more stereotypical of their kind are more often referred to as on the decline or hiding out in their warrens and barrows._

"Warrens? Barrows? What are we, rats?" Harry sniped, crinkling the paper in his hands before reading on.

_Well, that seems to be a notion we may need to change. Recently a vicious attack by a mob of angry Fae has set one upstanding business owner nearly on the street, homeless and without his livelihood._

_Aberforth Dumbledore – yes the brother of THE Albus Dumbledore, was recently chased out of his collapsing bar by a mob of armed and angry fairies, reportedly having barged in quite unannounced and unbidden to his peaceful and respectable wizarding watering hole. Around midnight the attack occurred, and let this reporter tell you, it looked to be a real scene of horror._

"Who in Maeve's name is this..." Harry muttered, reading faster in his irritation.

_Blood was evident all over the bar, from the violence that had been inflicted there. Broken tables and chairs, ruined stock and a nearly every surface and item present damaged in some say. Most disturbing, was what this reporter heard in regard to what else occurred that night._

_Apparently, not only was there mass violence perpetrated by the Fae to the patrons, but the town of Hogsmeade's stores of food had been plundered by the Fae as well. Below the Hog's Head is a storeroom that contains stores from the town's harvests, and it was cleaned out, decimated and ruined in the space of a few minutes by the terrible, unreasonable and obviously dark beasts. That the brother of an illustrious figure like Albus Dumbledore could be so idly targeted, speaks very ill of things to come, this reporter thinks._

_Is it time the Ministry took harsher measures against these kinds of acts? We at _The Prophet_, say the answer is obvious._

_For more on the Hog's Head, see page 8  
For more on Aberforth Dumbledore, see page 17  
For more on Hogsmeade, see page 22_

Harry handed the paper back to Flitwick with a sour expression. "That is so much..."

"It's the _Prophet_," the small man said, tucking the now disheveled paper into his robes with a negligent gesture. "You'll find that like most wizards, they tend to think in directions that reason and logic have little to do with.

"The real problem is going to be less what you did, Harry, as what people think happened," Flitwick explained, settling beside the glowering changeling with a sigh. "Now, what happened is less about what you meant to do, distract him, as what the wizards and Ministry will do later because of this."

"We left Fey plants in the stock room, so they'd think it was because the stocks had been taken from Fey ground," he explained, looking more cross than Flitwick had ever seen. "There was no blood, and anything that got broken was because those idiot humans can't walk in a straight line, getting so sotted," the boy hissed, his anger rising as he stomped back and forth on the dusty way. Shaking his head, Harry turned again and made his way angrily toward the town proper. "I don't care what they think," he called back over his shoulder, as Flitwick sighed, rushing to keep up.

Flitwick worried a moment on the boy's wording, as he spoke of the events. Still, the Prophet was the real concern, at least for the moment. "Sadly, Harry," the man mumbled, still out of the youth's earshot, "It only helps them when you don't."

',',',',',','

Despite the newspaper, little happened after the attack, beyond the town's scramble to support their neighbor in his time of need. Harry forgot the article in time, and things returned to their normal – at least as normal as ever – ways. Fall was soon to come, and he felt the Wintertides rising, filling him with incoherent happiness. Hogsmeade had resumed its normal ways for the most part, even if those were strained he was content to think. He'd assumed as much, till a stone cracked against his head and had him seeing stars as he stumbled.

Tensions had always been high in the town, even before the Hog's Head event. A return to those had been part of the normalcy Harry had noted, but even he could pick up on the low thrum of threat that echoed about the streets that seemed to go still when he walked around the town now. Still, it never crossed his mind that this would happen. That feeling, coupled with the scattered, dire visions he'd had during the distant midwinter revel should have made him more wary, he reasoned between stabbing pains that seemed to come with his heartbeat.

Spinning, the world doing its level best to keep on going despite his head stopping, Harry glared at the three dirty, sneering, unabashed little humans that still had rocks in their hands, standing outside a general store.

Those looks, so familiar to Harry from Dudley and his gang of horrid little friends was all that it took. He wasn't the smallest, weakest, or least powerful anymore. Surprise bloomed on the three's faces as Harry bent and sprung at them, easily dropping into a full sprint. Harry's Fey nature lent him more speed and grace than expected as he bowled into them, face twisted into a hateful snarl.

The boy with the empty right hand had Harry's immediate attention, as the changeling snarled in Fey incoherently a moment before slamming the youth's head into the ground hard, hands tangled in his dirty hair. Groaning with tears coming freely from his eyes, the boy curled up on himself, as one of his companions screamed. A warmth bloomed in Harry at the sound, a primal _something _spreading out from that core of heat down his limbs. He felt strong, vital at that moment in their fear. As he grinned widely, a hand snatching out quickly to pull the youth down he was suddenly thrown back and away from the children landing against Flitwick's side and crushingly, surprisingly strong arm.

"Be. Still," the professor hissed in his ear, and Harry tensed, looking about himself as the blue-black haze cleared from his eyes.

As he watched, adults materialized on the porch of the store, each moving to a child and all the while glaring at Harry and Flitwick. "What in Merlin's name is wrong with that little... _freak_?" A woman, maybe older and definitely uglier than Petunia spat in his direction, and Harry wrenched at Flitwick's arm, bunching like a cat and trying to spring again.

"I expect you _upstanding_ people to keep your children from open violence," Flitwick called back, staring right at the woman who preened and coddled the boy Harry had throttled. "Stoning a boy from behind is still something the Ministry I believe has a caning law enacted against, in regard to."

The woman's face went stony, as she snapped her gaze to the diminutive professor. She made to respond, glaring at Harry till a man beside her pulled her back and with her, two of the children. Clearing, the people in the street and among shops started chattering, going about their business again as if nothing had happened as Harry spat and growled in Fey long after the three and their parents had left his sight. The chatter littering the street had him, the Shack, and Flitwick in their words more often than not.

Pushing him down into a chair outside a deli, Flitwick did something with his wand and Harry was not only stuck to the chair, but the chair to the ground. Another wave, and a sheen settled into the air, a kind of shimmer that made the world beyond it grainy, indistinct. Glaring across at the man as he sat as well, he breathed heavily a moment before settling and going very still. "Why?"

Harry's simple question, asked with such chill as to make the professor shiver had Flitwick questioning his assumption that Harry could manage himself without coming to harm with the Fey. "Harry, did you see those adults?" Though he'd asked the question quietly, Flitwick's voice had an edge that was hard to miss.

Tilting his head, Harry shook off some of his still-rattled thoughts and recalled the scene, as he'd been held by Filius. "Yes. What about them? It was that child I wanted."

"Did you wonder why those children did what they did? Out in the open? In full daylight?"

Still hazy from the stone striking him, it regardless didn't take long for Harry to put the pieces together. "They... they _let_ them? They _approved_ of that?"

Sadly, looking more worn and old than Harry recalled, Flitwick nodded. "Right now Harry, this town is angry. They're angry at anything and anyone that catches their eye, and that makes them focus on you.

"When people get scared, they start looking for reasons, if one isn't apparent," the main explained, eyes distant. "When you came to Hogsmeade, it was still only a few years since the last of the Death Eaters had been arrested, or released. Those memories are still fresh. You're no dark wizard, my boy, but you have an... air about you."

"Unseelie nature," Harry replied, hand going up to his pendant, feeling its chill settle him, seep into him from his fingers. Despite his acknowledgment of the reason and cause, Harry was unapologetic, his words even proud.

Nodding, running a hand along his brow the professor let the explanation go at that. "Whatever it is, it seems to draw them, and their ire. It's spilling over as well," with a sad little laugh, he went on, looking at his hands. "I can't even help with your shopping now. They assume anything not school related is for you."

Shocked, Harry's mouth worked and he slumped in his chair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to affect you."

"Wizarding society is bigoted, backwards and... stupid," the half-blooded professor replied sadly. "Anything out of the ordinary is regarded with fear or hate. Which, as you may expect, is a lot. I mean, _magic_ Harry!" Slamming his hand onto the table, the little professor seemed to loom, despite Harry's knowledge he was shorter than the changeling. "Our world is made of the arcane, the peculiar, the unreal. Yet, our society is so... insular! People only see what they want, only want their tea and cakes to bake themselves, their mops to do the chores and their wireless to drowse to. It's," breaking off, the tiny professor shook his head hard.

"Disappointing?" Harry offered, and with a small fall of angry tears, Flitwick nodded emphatically.

"Yes. _Exactly_, and I've lived in it for years, hoping it would get better. Trying to be better in it, and then this..." the emotional little man took a few breaths, long and deep to calm himself. "I know you can't help what you are Harry," he said seriously, eyes watery behind his glasses. "Just be careful around them. I don't think it's safe anymore."

',',',',',','

Flitwick was right of course, about the anger and danger.

Not that he'd expected any different, after that day but it had been a turning point. There were no more lazing jaunts into the town, no more idle afternoons sipping flavored drinks outside one of the little shops. When he did have to go into town, it was often so early that hardly anyone was awake, and the shopkeepers bleary enough to miss who precisely it was that was there.

Flitwick had to threaten bodily harm to the post owl clerks to make sure Harry wasn't shut out there. He couldn't do the same to all the town, but that vital link couldn't he figured, be severed.

Rumors spread and flew, as news that the 'ghost boy' of the Shack had beaten three of the small village's children in the street over their throwing of a stone had been simplified of course. Now, Harry was just a violent and uncivilized urchin, another eventual Azkaban resident, whatever in Maeve's name that was. Familiar words, those he'd not heard since his time at the Dursley's started being murmured, and behind the cold facade of indifference, Harry's anger seethed.

Distance became the rule in their dealings with Hogsmeade, as did back up. Harry's studies turned away sharply from the topics he'd been taking with Tock and Grissnath. Where the Clockwork had been tutoring him on improving his grasp on casting the same kinds of glamors that Maeve had used on the Shack, only smaller and temporary, she now started focusing on self-glamors. How to make himself look different, change his voice and face.

Silence and footstep masking glamors were taught, ways to make sure he wasn't tracked, or could sneak around as he needed to. Tock started making him practice using ghostflame to defend himself, and he proved adept at it when angered or pushed too far. Though it wasn't a true defense, enough in one place would denature weak to moderate spells, causing the summoned walls of blue flame to flare and wink out with the curse or hex.

By his tenth birthday, he could change his outward appearance, and even for short periods fade like a full-natured Fey from sight. It was terribly taxing, and he could only do so for moments, but he knew it would be a useful skill one day.

Harry's understanding of the nature of glamor broadened, as his knowledge of different kinds increased. Glamor was illusion, an essential lie, but one told to the world and worded with the Fey's own substance. The Fey were dreams so potent the world itself believed them, and so their imaginings _were_ real.

At least that was how he was supposed to see it. The idea made limited sense to his young mind, but Tock felt it important that he grasp this fundamental kernel of their nature. To help him, she used the Redcaps as an example.

Rede and Raith could dim their own nature, pulling their glamor inside tightly, and thus appear so very normal and mundane. They could also let it flood into their person, becoming the essential concept they represented – vengeful hunger, the unending ache of unfulfillment that came with the dead season. Beyond that, they could shape that impulse into raw power around them, go so far as to even affect unthinking, undreaming things with their basic idea, the sheer threat they represented affecting things.

That confused Harry, as he wondered how unthinking things could feel threatened. Rede reminded him of the Centaur council, and how she had kicked a stone against their enclave wall. The Redcap sheepishly admitted to being so angry, that she must have let her glamor spark into the stone. When it struck the wall, that impulse, the threat in it, had caused things to react. In this case she had him imagine that if things could think, what would happen if they were frightened of her? The clamor on the other side made sense, in that case, but how?

Tock reclaimed her student, saying that perhaps this lesson was one he would understand with time. His work with invisibility had been a great leap in her mind, as to natural Fey, it was second nature. Their glamors were wrapped around themselves loosely, she'd explained, and this was how Fey slipped behind normal notice. What that meant, was that the Fey's self was keyed to the minds around them, turning them to seeing what they'd expect to explain away a direct sight. If someone were to see Raith feeding on a deer, likely they'd justify it as a wolf or other predator. It couldn't be a Redcap, after all. Glamor nudged that instinct along.

Focused glamor went counter to this, making the mind see and experience things, rather than letting it slip off like water on a duck's back. This was ghostflame, and most other active glamors. It was part of a Fey's nature, she explained as Fall approached, to draw out their own nature in those around them, to force their presence on them.

He didn't miss that turn of phrase.

Dudley, in his way, had been the result of the Redcaps and their forced presence. The pieces began to add up, from all his talks with Rede and Grissnath and how things had come about with him, and then it all became very clear. Fey glamor was their way to feed in a way, on the emotions and motivations, the inspiration from those things they became to those that they preyed on. He'd confronted Tock to this end and she had agreed with is logic, if not entirely on its wording.

Hogsmeade was, whether he liked it or not, becoming his hunting ground, Harry realized.

It explained a number of smaller, unassuming nuances as well. Harry had begun to sleep less and less, and each confrontation in the town had left him energized, rather than exhausted. The day of the attack against the Hog's Head, he'd been so wired that he couldn't sleep for three days. That flush of power as he'd retaliated to the children. The problem he found in this all was that it was dangerous, and likely to get him hurt at some point. Hogsmeade's people may even go so far as to destroy the Shack, he worried. Despite his concerns, there really wasn't anything he could do to avoid the town entirely, and even if he had, the rumors and muttering would go on without him, thanks to Aberforth's spies. It was a vicious cycle he could only break by wholly leaving the town, and he had nowhere else to go.

Each time he went abroad there, his Unseelie nature would do the work of turning the people against him, exciting those feelings that made them so ill at ease around the Shack. This would lead to confrontations, verbal and sometimes physical with the children, sometimes even adults, that would only cause more rumor and muttering. It infuriated him that there was nothing he could do, and at the same time he could literally feel their fear and anxiety painting wild imaginings about him, and it sang in his blood, energized him, filled him up with a foreign but blissful contentment. Harry didn't know whether to be ashamed or excited that such a thing called to him so strongly.

Fall came to them finally, September dawning cold and wet as any other winter. Harry felt it lovely, the cold rain, the rime-crusted mornings, and the deep frosts that came more and more often. The town turned inward, paying attentions to their harvests and work and not the Shack and its residents for a time. It was a false peace, but one he welcomed, as the tension was taking its toll. Months of being on edge, looking over his shoulder and trying to avoid or minimize his contact with the very town he lived in had been nerve wracking.

One thing marred those deceptively peaceful days, as Winter built up out in the world. Harry's back had taken to itching, to the point it made him nearly mad with the urge to scrape his shoulders along door jambs, tree limbs, and rocks. Eventually he'd pulled Grissnath aside, as he was the most knowledgeable of them with healing, and asked him what it was that was wrong with him. The Sluagh had no answer for him, but explained that there was a rash of visible veins on his back, a patten that seemed to spread along points over his shoulder blades and then fan out toward his sides and shoulders. Grissnath urged the young changeling to be careful, and avoid injury there, as the raised vessels could bleed heavily. He had tried to explain allergies, rashes, and growing changes to the boy, but honestly had no idea.

Harry's changeling nature defeated most of his knowledge.

Despite that small issue, one that eventually became no more than a nagging irritation, winter's influence grew and Harry felt the world turning like a clock under him. Half its face was masked in the anonymous colors of summer, but its other was a stark and coldly smiling image of his godmother. The lull of fall, like a held breath waiting for the truth of winter to be spoken, fell across the land.

It was the last day of September of his tenth year, that everything came to a head in Hogsmeade.

',',',',',','

The moon was nearly full, not quite how it should be for the harvest festival, but old traditions are those that were hardest to let go of. Tradition said that the festival be held on a Sunday, with the moon as full as it could be and nearest the equinox, between the third and fourth weeks of September. The year of Harry's tenth birthday, the new moon was all that graced the sky on that day. Those in Hogsmeade who clung to the same old traditions that had them planning their holidays around such silly omens should have thought that telling of its own accord.

Harry rested on a felled tree, old and withered, that had eventually succumbed to the seasons and laid down inside the forest. From its massive weight and position, it had crushed a lot of the surrounding woodland, and with autumnal leaves falling, there was little cushion in leaf and living limb to stop it. Where it had fallen, saplings and underbrush had been crushed and broken, and from where he sat, Harry watched as a handful of the lesser Fey cleared more out. He would be busy soon alongside the Redcaps as they cleared the trunk out and peeled it, harvesting the thing for its significance in the season. Wood would be passed to the Centaur for their houses and needs, while the Fey claimed the bark and roots. That would be later though – presently they were more concerned with clearing the small glade that the ancient tree's fall had made for their equinox feast.

Other than the midwinter some seasons ago, the Centaur and Fey had not held a collective celebration. Harry was himself partly to blame for this, as Bane was wary that the changeling's flagging popularity with the human village would spill over to his splintered herd and cause them further hardship, or at least he assumed that to be the case. Though Bane lost no affections for the humans, he also didn't want to rile them against his people without cause. He was wary, the changeling noted, but expectant. It seemed almost like he was waiting, and that was fine, really. Centaur nature was grounded to a degree in divination, and for Bane to showing that idea himself seemed normal to him. Harry took to reading the entrails of his own hunts, though the results varied heavily.

Aside from that strange nuance in the herdmaster's behavior, Bane had become edgy and prone to long silences. Harry worried that there was trouble between the Centaur factions, but he didn't ask how their breaking free of the greater herd affected them, and Bane wasn't forthcoming. He did know not to press for things not his business.

Rede and Raith shared hunting grounds with the increasingly militant splinter faction, and as long as the Fey and Bane's people managed well enough, Harry had little to worry on. He trusted Bane to come to him, if there was news that would affect his Troupe.

Thoughts on the Redcaps seemed to summon Rede out of the underbrush, loping easily on her massive boots, and seeing him she smiled and came to lean on the tree beside him. "You look comfortable," she quipped, and Harry snorted.

He knew that Rede and her brother had been cleaning and scouring the surrounding wood for anything else to move free of the soon-to-be glade, and it showed. She was scraped up, flushed, her silvery hair with bits of leaf litter and twigs clinging to it, while her eyes were a brilliant gold that had a glaze to them, speaking of her hard work. This made him feel a pang of guilt, but in truth he _was_ lazing for a reason. "Tock wants me to do most of the work on the glamors tonight, a test of a kind I suppose. Teacher's orders: I'm to be lazy a bit longer, Rede," he explained.

She wrinkled her nose, and huffed in mock exasperation, before grinning broadly and scampering up the tree beside him. Stretching with a light grumble, she curled up on the trunk against him like a cat, making him laugh suddenly. "Since you're going to be here then, I'm going to make some use of you," she stated, drifting from her exertion quickly to nap as the weakened sun overhead beat down on the darkening wood.

It wasn't unusual for them to sleep for small periods around noon now, something Harry just assumed was a result of their natures. As it was, he was feeling the urge as well and waved with the hand that wasn't draped over Rede to Raith as he broke cover from the wood.

Without a word, the Redcap looked over his sibling and the changeling and vaulted up behind Harry, stretching out with his back to boy. Shortly he settled, heavy boots against a spray of exposed root and leaned against Harry, keeping him upright on the dead tree. Harry leaned back as well, and the two drowsed while Rede made little snores on his lap.

Stretching and yawning, Rede woke first to see the afternoon spreading its cooling fingers along the woodlands in shadows and long clouds. She faintly remembered some noise, but could not recall it to her sleep-hazed mind. Blinking up at the changeling she'd made a pillow of, she grinned to see a fall of Raith's hair over his shoulder, figuring he was behind Harry in a similar pose.

They'd had so little peaceful time recently, not something she missed to be sure, as idleness and boredom almost literally hurt. For all her hate of inaction, their seasons had seemed so rushed, though. Harry had grown in that time, in both human and Fey ways. It was strange to watch one like him, speeding along in time unlike the Fey, but she knew that was just so much illusion. Changelings had an odd life, one she knew so little of, but could guess that Maeve had plans for him that would span more than his human life. Of course she wasn't sure of this, but it made a kind of sense.

For all her knowledge, mostly gleaned from Tock to be truthful, there was little to know of changelings, or even half-bloods. The nature of the modern world had made it difficult for the Fey to truly interact with those that dreamed. Though the tales and myths spoke easily enough of Fey and humans crossing their lives to produce children, the brutal truth was most humans simply didn't believe enough in Fey to bear those mixed children anymore.

That fundamental failure of thought was enough to kill an unborn Fey-touched child, who needed that spark of belief for their survival at so delicate a state.

Feeling lucky to be so near one of the few changelings, one of Maeve's own in fact, she watched as he slept, at ease and with his face free of the irritations of the nearby humans and their pettiness. The peace of sleep was deep on him, and she worked hard not to disturb it, laying and letting her thoughts center on the strange boy.

As he grew, so did they, weaving themselves in his influence and shadow. It wasn't planned really, or if it was then it had been Maeve's will and beyond questioning. He had bound them with the inclusion of himself in their Revel, and it was something she and Raith had walked into willingly. Still, they had spent a long time as unbound Fey, in Harry's reckoning, before that Revel and their forms were deceptive. Rede felt that Harry had an inkling that they were older than him, but she worried faintly at that. Knowing that the youth of her and Raith's time as Fey was coming to an end soon, much sooner with being bound to a changeling who's blood turned much faster with the changing seasons than their own unsettled her somewhat.

Raith had been as uncertain as she when after their Revel there was the threat that the one they'd become bound to would forsake their company, but the young changeling had proven to be a worthy one to keep kin with. Their time with him had been better than the young Fey could have hoped for, even if it had lacked the satisfying hunts they'd indulged in before their path was bound. Maybe it was being bound to a half-human, that dulled their hungers.

She frowned at that thought. Perhaps it was that his attentions, unlike that distant Halloween, hadn't been on prey. Were they so deeply bound? The attack on Aberforth would say yes, she realized. A moment of thought and she found the idea didn't bother her. Were they anything but who they were, that bond would be lost. He was the Scion of Winter – if she and Raith were silently bound to his will, then she would be satisfied. There were many fates, much worse than being so intimately tied to a friend one trusted.

Regarding the young changeling quietly, she reached up and swept the small fall of hair he had always let hide the rune Sigel on his face. _The Sun_. She wasn't foolish, of course, and knew there was something odd about the scar, that unsettled something in her that had her hands wanting to clench into claws and made her very teeth ache. Perhaps it was the literal meaning of the rune – the hallmark of Summer itself. It was so strange, yet a basic part of him. Perhaps it was part of Maeve's reason?

Rede sighed and relaxed back, going very still as she caught the leaf-green of Harry's eyes on her own. Stretching his arms, the changeling reached up and straightened her cap, from where it had settled back on her head slightly from her perch. "Good nap?" he asked quietly, and she nodded.

"I was just thinking," she admitted easily, not in the habit of lying to the changeling. What reason did she have to do so? They'd shared blood, hunted, and held one home. "I wondered what Maeve intended taking you for a changeling. Marked in the Sun's name like you are."

Harry made a small shrug with his head, trying not to move and wake Raith. "I'm sure godmother has her reasons," he remarked idly, amused at how Rede's eyes widened at his casual reference to the Winter Queen. "She said once it was my mother's call that brought her to me, but then she didn't have to make me what I am, did she?"

Rede shook her head, filing that small tidbit away for another day. She knew Harry wouldn't lie to her either, and with his words understood that he knew as little as she on those questions. It made sense of course – she knew he'd have said something by now. "Do you regret it?"

He seemed to consider the question a long time, and Rede saw the thoughts behind his leaf-green eyes, as they flitted about. "No, I don't regret it," Harry said finally. "For all the strange things, for all the odd hardships from Hogsmeade and how I guess my nature made the Dursleys worse, I don't regret it. I get to live in a world most people can't even imagine. It's... I can't really imagine being anything else now," he admitted, laughing silently. Idly, he gestured out toward Hogsmeade, "Can you imagine me as one of them? A _wizard_, walking around blind to the world that's all around them?"

Chuckling quietly with him, Rede shook her head and settled against the young boy. _Harry the wizard_, she mused. _What a curious idea_.

Rede's mind stilled, as a pressure built inside her. With a slight sense of the world growing in her mind, awareness in a portion there that she hadn't noted was dark and coming up and awake the Redcap knew her sibling was rousing. Harry showed no sign, and she knew Raith was waiting, seeing if the boy was awake as well. She sent him an image of them talking, trusting he would understand.

Raith stretched widely then, but stayed where he was, bracing Harry upright with his own back still. Turning his head slightly, the changeling mumbled a happy greeting to Rede's brother and the Redcap smiled in reply.

Scratching at an itch, a burr in the bark irritating him, Raith looked to the sky. "When do you think we'll begin preparations?"

"Likely just before nightfall," Harry answered, having wondered that himself. The tree itself would be made short work of by the Redcaps, but his work would be taking that and making it into their tables and chairs and bowls, for the feast, what larger parts weren't to be given to Bane's Centaur.

That reminded him of Ixipti, and her task for the day. He missed her constant presence, the light feel of her about, an odd thing to admit. She left a kind of imprint on his mind, a sense of where she was, when close by. With them apart so far, he could sense the lack, and if it was for very long times the feeling became rather uncomfortable. It was this, not Rede's careful and quiet staring that had woke him.

"What is it?" Rede had noticed his darkening expression, it seemed.

Mouth working quietly a moment, Harry shook his head, brows furrowing. "I can't... something's wrong. Ixipti..."

Reaching up, Rede smoothed at his brow with her thumb, as Raith turned and laid his arm across the changeling's shoulder, sensing the disquiet in the youth. Rede caught his eye again, as Harry stared out at the forest uneasily, her question easy to read.

He had opened his mouth to answer, when Bane crashed into the half-cleared glade, Tock bounding beside him in a strange jumble of limbs that twisted and spun, carrying her to them and continuing in that peculiar whorl till she was upright again. He'd grown used to such things in time, and what drew Harry's attention wasn't the Clockwork's odd arrangement of limbs but Bane's grim and angry expression. With an agitated stamp of hooves the Centaur shook himself, and nodded his head to Harry, which the changeling returned, slipping down the trunk with the Redcaps soon after.

The Centaur looked to Tock meaningfully, but the Fey shied from the stare, making Harry look between the two hesitantly. He didn't have time to ask about his mentor's behavior though.

Bane wasted no time on pleasantries, "Villagers had caught wind of our preparations, it seems," he said, words clipped in anger. Harry's demeanor instant shifted and air about him chilled steeply. With a slight grim show of teeth, the Centaur continued, "the foodstuffs are gone, what wasn't able to be moved and carried off ruined. There was violence there as well..."

Harry's anger was met by the Redcap's own, Rede's spitting hiss and crackle of bones shifting loud beside him. Raith he knew would be coldly staring ahead, as his hands went sharp and deadly. In a distant part of Harry's mind he wondered why the people of Hogsmeade would do something so... _stupid._ Petty even. What was left tried to focus beyond his anger on Bane's manner, how he carried a sense of expectation with him, how he kept looking to Tock as if waiting on her to say something at each pause.

"They knew it was your own?" he asked, and Bane shook his head slowly, looking to Tock with some anxiety, again. Harry, confused at the Centaur's manner as he rarely if ever had that look about him, glanced at the Clockwork as well.

Shifting with a rise and fall of muted chimes, Tock sighed, "We were careful, as careful as we could be. Gathering forest fare, making our food at the Marshlight house, moving when it was done." Grissnath's home had been named so for the Wisps that were always about, and the number of luminescent ghosts that lingered there. Harry knew that the marsh-bound Fey home was far and beyond any of the village's normal wanderings. It was deep even for Harry and the Redcaps to travel to idly, and they moved through the wood like shadows. "We think someone of the village, maybe after the pub and the implications there, has started being on the lookout for the lesser Fey's comings and goings," she said, a tightness clipping her words.

Harry hissed a gasp between his teeth. That would _not_ be good, if the village connected him, the forest-dwelling Fey, and the Hog's Head and then acted. Not only would the Shack be a focus of their wrath, but it would likely flow out into the forest, maybe even reaching Marshlight itself. Cursing the town in general, the changeling stalked around, lost in thought but there was something about Tock's demeanor that brought him back. Something missing... A chill ran down his back, as he realized precisely what, or rather who that lack was.

She hadn't looked up at him in some time, and that only worsened his anxiety him. "What happened to the Fey that were there?" Looking between the two quickly, Harry took a step toward the Centaur, stopping at Bane's pained look. Harry's voice cracked, his eyes darting, words tumbling out in a rush, "What happened? What else is there? Did they get to the marshes? The Shack?" Tock swallowed thickly, and Bane shifted uneasily on his hooves. Finally Harry's patience swept free and the wind in the half-made glade snapped, the clothes and cloaks those there wore were pulled and shifted about as a blast of icy cold hurled itself from Winter's Scion. "What else is there?!" he boomed, the young boy's voice rattling dead branches around them.

Bane held his ground, as Tock made a small, indistinct sound like metal rending and curled up on herself. The Centaur looked from Rede to the changeling, not liking at all the bluish cast his skin was starting to edge into, when his vision wasn't focused on the young boy. Focusing on the Redcap, he cleared his throat quietly, "They came with iron. Your companion and many of her fellows had to be taken to Marshlight, after."

',',',',',','

A/N: Ch.9 almost done as well. Expect it soon, as it was part of the original, condensed Ch.8.


	9. The Wild Hunt

**The Wild Hunt**

_Mercy? An idea for those who fear retribution. Did you know that the word's ancient meaning, was wages? To be paid for some act? Well then, there is mercy in Winter, for certain. -Grissnath  
_

',',',',',','

_"They came with iron."_

Raith's own anger drained out of him in a rush, as Rede looked back at her brother with wide eyes. From the area behind Bane, Tock's frantic fidgeting with her four arms had taken on a fever pitch, face bent down and hidden in the hood of her ever-present cloak.

Stock still, Harry stared out at the wood, his mind blank for a long moment, before it restarted with a jumble. They'd left Fey to watch the stores, placed under lean-to's and outside the herdgrounds by some distance. It was a median position, not far from Bane's people, Marshlight, or the Shack. Because of its place and their plans, the two factions had swapped out duty in watching and protecting the stores. It hadn't been going on long at all, really. Just a few days. They only worried on forest animals, things any of their number could chase off, and vermin were no issue – the Fey could easily glamor those nuisances away.

Even Ixipti and her kin.

What fragments of his mind that were not trying desperately to piece together the reality of what was said resembled a howling gale. The hatred he'd felt from the Dursleys, and now the bitterness toward them, all the anger and frustration of the few years among the town coiled up in his chest and roared through his mind and ears loudly, leaving no room for words or ideas. Mouth working slowly, the changeling child looked up to Bane's grim face, "Ixipti?"

"Hurt. Grievously so, and being tended by the Deadguised one at Marshlight," the Centaur replied, reaching out a hand that rested on Harry's shoulder. With a wince, Bane fought the impulse to pull back, his skin stinging at the cold seeping from the changeling. If he'd doubted ever before the child's claim to be the Wintermaiden's own, he would never do so again.

"Rakes! They _knew_ the little ones were there!" Tock screeched out from behind the Centaur in her tinny voice, no melody at all trying to soften her words as the Fey all turned to her sudden outburst. She didn't draw away this time, as Harry's dead, lichen-colored eyes swept to her. "They came from the woods swatting at them like _flies_," she spat, faintly shaking in rage and anger, before what had wracked her earlier crept up on her again and she flinched from Harry.

He understood then. She had seen, but... "What did you do, Tock?"

Reaching up, she covered he head with one pair of arms, the other wrapped around her midsection, and cried, "they guessed, I have to hope so... if not then," shuddering the Clockwork went silent and Harry stepped forward but a gesture from Bane set him back a step.

Bane took hold of the Clockwork Fey's hitching shoulders and with a surprisingly gentle gesture picked her up, wrapping the cloak about her closely. "Have the siblings explain bells. I need to see her to Marshlight as well," the Centaur said, leaving the clearing at a brisk canter.

Staring after Bane's retreating form, Harry knew it wasn't anger that he felt welling up in him like a black torrent – he knew that Tock wouldn't stand by and let something horrible happen idly. In truth she was lucky if the villagers had acted out violently, and escaped without injury. Still, his anger and hurt didn't let him be, and he spun on Rede who took him by the shoulders, gentle fingers only hours before curving into his skin like talons now. "Sit. Now," she said in a tone that wouldn't bide argument.

The sun was setting, and Harry could feel the night tides gathering, not something conductive even on its own to stillness. Rede wasn't often so stern though, so he sat and shook in the wake of his emotions, looking up at her glinting bronze eyes with a growing, itching and yawning emptiness inside him. It howled and ached, and he _needed_ to go find Ixipti and make this right somehow, or it was going to spread so far that it swallowed him up from the inside out.

Rede ran fingers through her hair, uncaring at the small scratches in her skin that followed her hand's path, "_Bells_, Lady's breath..." Wincing, she sat heavily beside the changeling, shaking as well. "Iron bells can hurt lesser Fey, if made correctly. The sound can stun them, or simply make them very disoriented. They can harm others too...

"You know how Tock's body is always making sounds?" At Harry's nod, the Redcap went on, seeming to find some balance in her words, in explaining, "well, she's probably very weak to something like that. It's an old myth that carried over in church bells, but it still holds true. Iron bells toll in a way none of the Fey like. If they brought one with them, then Tock may have been totally unable to help Ixi, Harry."

He shook his head hard, eyes shut tight. "Not mad at Tock," he choked out, shaking his head slowly side to side, as if listening for something distant, faint. Harry started at Raith's sudden, sharp voice.

"We'll see her when you're calm. You can't help her, if you're too upset to see _her_ over your own anger," Raith added, from the felled tree. Glancing up Harry noted the rakes, deep gouges ripped into the tree's bark behind him. He must have missed noticing Raith lashing out.

Glaring at the Redcap, Harry pointed to those marks, "Oh, and you're one to talk? What do you want me to do, forgive and forget?"

"No," Raith said calmly, moving to sit before Harry as Rede reached over to run a hand along the changeling's back, trying to soothe him. A slow, cruel smile spread across the Redcap's lips before he spoke again, flat amber eyes holding him, "We expect you to get even." Pushing himself upright, Raith looked around the glade, a place that had been the focus of so much of their time and work. Then, he laughed, a low, mirthless sound. "Once you're calm, we'll go see her. Then, we'll bring Winter to those who court it so recklessly."

"We'll remind them why they huddled in their huts and caves as we danced under the snows," Rede's voice had picked up a singsong quality, lulling Harry as he closed his eyes and worked to push the anger back, knowing he would be useless support to his first friend if he went to her like this.

"Then, we'll have a true Revel, not some token feast," Raith declared, meeting his sister's eyes. With a small start and a slow grin, she nodded and wrapped her arms around Harry, who reached up and took her small, hot hand in his own. Leaning into the hug, he felt the anger and hate that was welling up in him drain off, seep back into the darkness behind his eyes. He should have known the Redcaps, of anyone, would understand what he was feeling.

They knew he needed to go to Ixipti, but also that he should do it calmly. His rage would be unfair to her. No, he would save it – nurture it and feed it her pain as well. All together they would teach Hogsmeade that you do not disrespect Winter.

',',',',',','

Their arrival at Marshlight was perhaps a half hour behind Bane's own, a respectable speed on foot. It was still too long for Harry's tastes, but that time had been spent well, he thought.

As they ran, the three planned.

Harry knew there were thousands of things he still had no clue about, in regard to the Fey's world – his world. Today though he made sure that one lesson would be learned and learned well. Vengeance.

"The Hunt, it's practically a myth in its own way," Rede explained, leaping from an old stump to land against a wide tree trunk, her wicked claws holding her in place for the moment she needed to spring again.

Raith followed, beside Harry as the two took the more sedate way, along the ground. The changeling weaved to the side as Raith shouldered a fall of deadwood aside brutally, lost in his thoughts. Despite being siblings and functioning more or less as a single being some times, the two had some drastic differences, if you knew where to look, "the Fey have ways to balance slights like this. We do not openly war with dreamers."

The Redcap's words confused him, but Harry kept on, pacing the Fey as they took their own ways through the wood. War. Was that what he wanted?

Rede lighted on a nearby fall of stone and slid to a stop, waiting the moment for them to reach her, "Neither of the Courts move like the dreamers do, with huge armies, and sprawling battles." She made sense, Harry had to admit. Not that he was much on history or news, but something about large numbers of Fey moving like armies would be hard to miss, he imagined.

"What do they do then?" Lacking the Redcap's massive iron boots, Harry was quicker than Raith, and sped up to Rede's shadow, as she flitted among sky and earth.

Slowing and waiting for her brother and the changeling, Rede leaned, panting against the marshbound roots of a massive tree. "The Hunt," she said simply, pulling twigs and leaves from her hair. "Fey settle their grievances personally. There's not been something like this in some time though... a village acting out like this."

Harry did have to admit, this had gone on too long, and gone well beyond too far. "So the Fey use the Hunt for revenge?"

"It's more, and less," joining them, Raith paused and stretched, his broader frame rising and falling with deep breaths. "Think, Harry. Fey sweeping over those that wronged them. How would they see it?"

"It's like glamor, Harry," Rede said as they crossed from the woodlands to the borders of the sodden marshes. "In the Hunt we are one idea. One action."

Rage and his desire to strike back for what Hogsmeade had done had prompted him to ask what he should do, and it seemed the Redcaps were of a mind on this, without question. That it sounded brutal and violent didn't escape his notice, and remembering the faces and words of the town, their own twisted perceptions and actions, Harry found it fitting. He knew Flitwick would be horrified that he considered retaliating against them, what he thought of as just simple and misguided folk, but to Harry this wasn't simple.

This was the Dursleys, this was the rumors and snide looks, this was the years in school glared at and preyed upon, and finally this was an act of hatred against someone close to him. He could forgive the rest, brood and wait till it all broke the soap-bubble surface of his calm like that one day on the street with the children, but not when it happened to his family.

Grissnath met them at the border of his home's edge, cutting through the swath of Centaurs and unfamiliar Fey who were tending the wounded. It surprised Harry for a moment, recalling how often many simply discounted the little ones. They were the least of the Fey, considered little more than mindless bundles of impulse by most.

Perhaps it was beyond most of the lesser Fey to make grand plans, and worry on more than a day's fun, but then like him, Ixipti was different. He could see how Maeve's influence and his own would stabilize her. In turn, she was looked on by her kin as a defacto leader, the go-between to Harry, who lead the Troupe. In a way, he felt very awkward about this, but then he knew that as Maeve's godson, he had their respect. On his own, he was proud to have earned more than just that, by opening his home and welcoming them. The Fey were his first friends – regardless of his godmother's actions, he would always be there for them. He put his musings on the difference of views aside, knowing that these people – Fey and Centaur alike – were his friends and allies, and that it was his Troupe that had been targeted.

Thoughts on his Troupe and the Centaur milling about reminded Harry of his other allies, Bane and his trusted. That was respect of another kind, one that he felt would be tested by what he was planning, despite Bane's personal opinions of humans.

The Sluagh straightened as they approached him, and Harry winced to see flecks of maroon and violet on his hands. "She will be alright, Scion," the enigmatic Fey whispered in his constantly low voice, and Harry settled almost immediately, tension draining out of him. "If not for the Centaur..."

Bane found them then as if summoned, his hooves making agitated motions on the formerly manicured gardens. Shaking his head, the proud master of his herd regarded Harry and his Troupe with a guarded expression. "When you have seen to Ixipti, Heir, I would have a word."

"I understand," Harry replied, and with a curt nod and a clatter of hoof, Bane was away from them, going back to the patrols that circled Marshlight, in case trouble came to them. Turning back to the Sluagh, Harry motioned to the house, "Can we see her?"

"Yes, but walk with me," he said, beckoning around the far wall. To Grissnath, the delay in letting the changeling and his closer friends into the grounds to see about the little Fey wasn't malicious, or meant to annoy the boy. He seemed to gather that thankfully, and by unspoken accord they tested one another: Harry to see if Grissnath's demeanor would break, revealing something more sinister had occurred to his first friend, and the Sluagh to see if the Heir was of sound enough mind to keep his temper in check.

They passed the walks, now littered with the remains of what could be salvaged for their festival, moods quiet. Raith and Rede seemed to vibrate with contained energy, springs waiting to be released. Harry brooded, his mind fighting a war of its own between wanting to find whoever did this and hurt them, and what the results would be. There was never a question of if, only what and then what would come after.

Inside Marshlight, much of the Sluagh's home had been rearranged quite drastically. Gone were the many curious and unusual things that the distant Fey studied, packed away perhaps or in another place within the large home. About the main room a hospital wing of sorts was laid out, with numerous of the Winter Court he'd assumed there offering their energies and time to the healing.

The Sluagh was not one to dally in important things, and lead them to Ixipti's small bed, the entire apparatus looking little larger than dish towel. Laying quite pitifully upon it, curled up on her side to keep her wings from being fouled, lay Ixipti, breathing lightly and staring up and around as she could from her position. Across her bluebell-hued blouse, a deep and ugly stain had spread.

Kneeling down, Harry ran the tip of a finger along the tiny Fey's wing, causing it to flick once and the ghost of a smile to creep up on the little one's face. "Hey. Heard you had an adventure today."

Deep azure eyes regarded him as if he were mad, before she squeaked out the equivalent of a snort, "Not fun," she chirped, but nodded regardless.

Harry grinned despite his worry, and relaxed. Muscles, a tension he didn't know he was carrying loosed, and it felt like a river started flowing in him again. Ixi seemed to brighten as his softening expression as well. Though he'd not seen her injury yet, just knowing the Fey could speak with him undid something horrible in his chest, and he felt it pass, a leaf on water. Not wanting to ask about her condition over her head, he continued very lightly running a finger along the wider brace of her wing, something he knew put her at ease, "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," was her simple answer, a light shake of her head following. "Didn't sleep."

Glancing up at Grissnath, the Sluagh discreetly pointed his chin at the nearby cots, numerous other Fey napping as they were tended. The sun was still out but the evening tides had started to rise, so he had to assume that the sleep was part of their healing. As the little one under his hand seemed to waver, eyes drooping, the meaning of her words clicked and he sighed, as his first friend's face bending a bit more into her smile. "Silly, silly Ixi."

Nodding, the Fey pulled his hand down and wrapped an arm around his palm, shivering and gasping when the back of his hand came against her, brushed the injury he imagined under the once-pretty little dress. Still, she closed her eyes and seemed content enough. "Waited," she mumbled simply, already drifting off.

Maybe half an hour passed as he waited and let Ixipti draw off his own energy to fortify herself, something he'd come to understand easily enough. They had bonded when he had begun telling her stories, sharing his imaginings with the tiny girl, in turn having her be a literal fairy tale to him. Since then, she'd been the only of the smaller Fey to really speak with him, something he didn't miss. He knew in a way it was his influence on her that had changed the little one, gave her the reason and motivation, as well as the stability to learn such things. He didn't ask for anything from the Fey, for all her willingness to help him. She was his friend first, regardless of Maeve's initial intent. He would do this, without ever needing to be asked.

When he was content she would sleep and heal without him, Harry gently untangled his hand from the clinging Fey and stood, stretching sore and locked joints. The Redcaps had gone on about the ward, lending their own energy to Ixipti's injured kin, helping in their small way as well. Feeling drained in ways that had nothing to do with glamor, Harry stepped outside to get some air.

He stared long at the stain of deep violet across the back of his hand, Ixipti's blood. Harry's mind whirled in an incoherent cacophony, as he struggled to keep his mind clear, while nighttime sounds started growing louder. The marshes saw the Fey as natural, regardless of Court, and the calls of frogs and insect didn't lessen for their gathering.

Joining him shortly was Grissnath, apparently free of his duties for a small time. His muted words broke into Harry's labored thoughts, cutting through them like a knife, "And how fare you, Scion?"

"Would be a lot better if you'd just call me Harry," the boy quipped, a rare edge to his voice with the odd yet friendly Fey. He regretted it immediately, but only long enough for the Sluagh to answer, as usual.

To Harry's annoyance, the Sluagh just laughed, "Oh, no I don't think so. Best to get you used to such address sooner, as opposed to later.

"Yet, I don't think you truly care so much on this, as you seem." Regarding Harry intently, the unsettling Fey gave him a grim smile. They both knew that there were more important things to speak of, and that the banter was just a stall. His expression said as much, it was the look of one who hated what he was to say yet had no choice, and it made Harry's stomach churn, just looking at it. "Ask your questions, Scion."

Running a hand through his hair, Harry leaned back against the curved wall that faced the marsh. "How bad was she hurt?"

Grissnath nodded faintly, slinking down in a boneless way to settle beside the changeling. "She was taken across the chest and abdomen by an iron implement. I wasn't sure of the kind. It... was quite bad for a time."

Harry's anger had slept for a while, waiting for the right time to rear back up. Hearing about Ixi's injury seemed a good time, "Could she have died?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.

"Harry," the Sluagh's own voice took a wary cast, and he seemed to draw inward on himself, before fixing the young changeling with a yellowed, staring eye. "I don't think you understand, we do not... _die_, from iron in the ways humans think of it."

Shifting uncomfortably, the Fey continued. "When a Fey in this world is undone by iron, it twists our nature. We become... damaged. Our very ideas warped."

Digesting that for a moment, Harry remembered the day he met Bane. How incensed Rede had been at the insult of iron being used as a threat, even accidental. He'd felt she and Raith had overreacted then, but with hearing this, it seemed perhaps he should have asked for more than that simple boon. "If she had died, then..."

"I... cannot speak of it, I doubt it would make sense to one so young." Harry paled as the Sluagh shivered, his arms slipping around himself as he stared out at the marshes, unseeing. He could feel the fear and horror washing off the Fey, and it terrified him. As Harry stared, trying to reason through the irrational urge to run, not from Grissnath but that idea that shook him so, the Sluagh continued, voice cast nearly too low to hear, "We do not leave ghosts to wander, like these wizards, Scion. When Fey cease, we return to our true home, those places of the Courts, to be reborn. From iron... what would be reborn in the Middleworld would be... _twisted_. Unnatural. Unable to leave that place."

Harry's blood froze, his mouth working slowly. He couldn't grasp what the Sluagh meant, or his mind simply refused to accept it. Through his own upset, the churning anger, and the mind-numbing fear coming off the Sluagh, Harry found it hard to reach for understanding. He could feel the Fey's panic over such an idea, the words painting horrid pictures in his mind, but it didn't reach him.

Shaking his head hard, the changeling tried to focus on the now, and not the emotions settling like a fog over Marshlight. He knew that Ixipti wasn't the only one injured, and the talk of death, such a new and terrible thing, had him short of breath. Harry knew though, that there were questions he still needed to ask, questions the Sluagh's words drilled home to him.

Ixipti _could_ have died today, but it was plain on the Fey's face, that some _had_. Dreading the answer already, Harry nonetheless asked the question that would now not leave him be, "How many died today?"

"Eight," the Sluagh whispered, his voice having gone cold and without inflection. "That they are called lesser Fey; it is a grave disservice. They are the pure ones. Untainted by high ideas. They simply are what they are, and worry not at all on the world's great, foolish games," by the time Grissnath had taken a breath, he was speaking so loudly Harry wondered at his mind's state as well. Sluagh he'd learned could only whisper, the only times they could raise their voices was when they sang. Like their not-so-distant cousins, the Banshee, Sluagh did not sing without reason. "Eight lights – gone!" Voice a gravelly roar now, the Sluagh raised himself back up, a fluid arranging of bones that bore little resemblance to standing.

Taking the Fey by the shoulders, Harry pulled his friend back down, shaking his head against the taller Fey's arm, "Griz, don't. Don't do this here. Not here," he muttered, and felt the odd rippling shudder of the Sluagh's choked out sigh. "They still need you here," Harry punctuated the word with a stomped foot, the sharp sound startling them both.

Grissnath sank back down, his usual slumped posture coming to the fore. With a terse nod, the Fey made to turn and go back to his work, leaving the Heir to his thinking. As he passed to the doorway that would lead him to the injured, the Sluagh paused. "Do not let this stand, Scion," the Sluagh whispering again, charged him. His hair, lank and stringy obscured one eye, yet the other pinned him as surely as an arrow. "Make this right."

Harry could only nod, thinking to the plans he and the siblings had thought up, running here. Plans that needed some changes, he decided.

He found Bane, as he wandered the marsh thinking, planning. The dark-skinned Centaur was remarkably quiet in the forest, something Harry would always marvel at. "It is a grim day, Scion," he offered by way of greeting.

Responding with a wooden nod, Harry slipped to sit by the tall figure. "Why did they do it?"

Neither expected the sudden question, Harry unsure why he asked and Bane why he had been the one to hear. Still, the herdmaster leaned down and sat a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Mostly, when humans do things that hurt themselves, or another, it's due to fear."

"There isn't anything..." Harry let his voice trail off, shaking his head slowly. Of course, there wasn't anything to truly fear, nothing to inspire such a range of emotions. Only the Fey themselves, regardless of their actions. "It's not fair."

Bane laughed, quiet and mirthless, "Of course not Scion. Fate sees you clearly. Have you ever heard fairness and fate spoken of, together?"

To be honest, Harry hadn't heard of either very much, but thought of fairness quite a lot with the Dursleys. Still, Bane was waiting on an answer, "No, I suppose not."

Hefting a weapon Harry had not seen the Centaur pick up, the changeling stared at Bane, seeing his eyes far, distant. "Nor will you," the Centaur replied easily.

Gesturing toward Marshlight, the two returned to see Centaur donning armor, and the Redcaps watching him with open hunger, a familiar heaviness of expectation to the air. Turning to Harry, Bane offered his hand, "We made an agreement of friendship once. Now I offer you allies in war."

Blinking, Harry's brow furrowed, but he didn't step away. Instead he took the offered hand, his own tiny in comparison. "Why, though?"

Bane laughed, his hooves stamping in excitement, "Because, Scion. It is who we are." Sweeping a hand toward the camps, he included the Fey, the Centaur Harry and himself, before going on, "You are who you are, in the manner of Fey. Wizards misunderstand their fates, the bright lines between stars and strive their whole lives to escape them, doing nothing but falling into the darkness there. They never see the stars for the beauty, the comforting steady light they offer. Only boundaries.

"You, Harry, will understand that light. Cold, bright, and sharp."

',',',',',','

Full dark had fallen across Hogsmeade, and the people of the town milled about in the streets, toasting their good harvests, alternately congratulating or sniping at one another's crops. Small magical lights lit the plaza, the joining of streets as festive-dressed wizards milled about, chatting and laughing and at their ease. Prize articles were carted about, potions sold, food to be had by the barrels by anyone who would take it.

Though the stores held under the Hog's Head had been lost, the harvest this year was good, very good by all accounts. It had been so since Harry and his Fey had become more active, their presence giving the lands around Hogsmeade more of the ambient, natural magic that such crops thrived on. Something that seemed beyond the understanding of the carelessly celebrating wizards.

Among their celebration, the food that had been gathered by the Fey and Centaurs also sat, mostly stored in cellars, or handed out by very few that knew its nature. Such things were a rare, and greedily held delicacy. A guilty one as well – as few who went on that raid could forget the screams that ripped from the Fey they'd attacked with bell and farm tool. Some were proud of their act, thinking themselves clever for remembering the old myths, about iron and church bells. Some were horrified they'd been caught up in such a thing, the killing and attacking of Fey and their own harvests in the wood. There were other myths, ones as old as the tales of iron.

Myths of Fey riding out, calling blood for blood in vengeance.

Unseen to the wizards, a gray hound slipped in and out of the various lanes, booths and crowds, smelling his way around in search of something. Lane, in the guise of a great, wiry, gray dog, went about the people of Hogsmeade with barely stilled hate. The tang of Fey blood was thick in the town, something he'd hoped never to smell again. With Bane and Tock's help, he'd been able to imprint the faces of those that had attacked Ixipti's kin, and was in the process of marking them with a mild glamor. He didn't need such help, as it turned out. The guilty stank of their own sin easy enough.

The mark he left was invisible – invisible to humans, at least. To Fey it burned like a Wisp in a closet.

Eight of their number were marked this way the ones he could smell the blood thickest on, with more having a different brand marked on them. Tock had seen who struck the blows, but also who followed for the spoils, and so there was an order to his work. To Lane's mild shock, the Puka noted that three of those were little more than children, perhaps just older than the Scion, as humans counted age. They too had the miasma of guilt and greed on them, a thick and oily smell. Anger threatening to rise beyond his control, the shifter finished his grim work – marking the damned for their culling.

',',',',',','

Beyond the lights of the festival, outside the glowing moonlit glade and yards that separated the forest from the small town, the Hunt gathered. Following the prompts from the Redcaps, Harry had called his allies and explained what he wanted, in simple, blunt terms.

He would go to Hogsmeade, and spill blood in measure, for those that had been hurt and lost in his Troupe. His family. To draw iron on Fey, regardless of stature was inexcusable. To his shock, the collected of Marshlight rallied with grim determination.

Harry and his Troupe, Bane, and a few of his Centaurs stood waiting, in that border between the wood and the fields of the town. Joining them were other Fey of the realm, and to Harry's surprise, Maeve's own coachman had appeared, riding and leading the Kelpies he was typically driving for her Coach.

Though his appearance was a shock, he was grateful for the dire Fey. Harry's one worry this night had been his godmother, and how she would take his actions. Was he being childish? Would she be disappointed in him, for lashing out this way? Harry didn't think she would be, as he knew her ties to humanity... He was all she had.

The Coachman had come to show her approval, clearly enough. He also brought a message for the young Heir to Winter. Harry had greeted him as seriously and grimly as the others who had joined, and while he settled the great carnivorous beasts he'd rode to the Heir's service, gave the changeling his missive.

Breaking open the peculiar letter, which drew the Redcap's eyes like magnets, Harry was startled to see its nature. Written on a strange paper that seemed made of pale flower petals with moonlit ink, Harry's eyes widened, realizing that the Coachman's presence was not the only message from Maeve.

_Godson,_

_I have heard of the wrong done to you and yours, and lead the Court in their lament over the kin of your good friend and my vassal. We are not a sorrowful people, my changeling. Nor, are we forgiving. Those who are of Winter, who rejoice in it and embrace its ways know is not for the weak, but those who survive. The small ones will be missed, but their loss will not be a debt unpaid._

_Though I had hoped the town to be a help to you, I see that my own influence on you was perhaps too much, too soon. I am deeply sorry that such a thing happened, and hope you do not hate me for being a part of it. I wanted only to lead you closer to me. In that, perhaps my impatience was a mistake._

_As your godmother, Harry, you have my sympathies. I will come to you soon, and regret that this must be how my words find you now. You also have my hopes for a speedy vengeance. Yes, I know you, well enough my godson, to know this will not go unanswered. Your family is sacred. I am proud of that, in you._

_As your Queen I demand blood, my Heir. Winter will not have its pure, its fleeting flowers so carelessly treated. This trespass will not go unanswered. _

_As closest of my kin, I would have you be my hand, my voice this night. My Coachman brings with him my will. If you would please me, godson, Heir, take it up. Be my hand. Take up Winter's vengeance._

_Let this be your Revel, my child._

_Make Winter proud._

A part of him read those words and worried – worried that he was about to repay unkindness with unkindness. Would that make the town stop their narrow-minded actions? Would it excite the angers and hate seething there, and push them to even greater violence?

Maeve's blood, her promise in him, to him, twisted in his veins along with his want – no a _need_ to see balance. Maeve trusted him, gave him not just a chance to thrive, rather than merely survive and suffer with his hated relatives, but to _live_ and be his own person. She trusted him with her own people. A trust he had slipped in maintaining. They were there as friends, as her will to be sure, but also because they felt safe with him there as her changeling. Her kin, as she said.

_Family_. She considered him family... and these... _humans_ had taken that from him.

Icy smoke and rime clouded his vision as the moon painted the town in pale hues, the Heir of the Dead Season regarded those below him. Their happy arrogance, the uncaring celebration. They had either already forgotten the grave error they'd made, or simply thought themselves untouchable.

He would reeducate them. Teach them that there was no torch or shelter, when Winter itself meant to take you.

',',',',',','

Atop Lane, standing as tall as the Kelpies as a gray-coated horse, Harry regarded those with him, his Hunt. He was well aware that he had no skill with riding so the Puka had offered his back, so he could join those assembled. For him, being on foot was not an option, as he would be leading them on. Unlike him, the Redcaps were more than capable on their own, so Raith and Rede sat by Lane's flanks, panting slightly thought bared teeth with glazed eyes. The Wolves of Winter were howling in his mind, and he could practically smell the bloodlust on the Redcaps. He considered that a moment, before laughing loud, mirthlessly.

"Here we are again," he said, the words sounding distant and cold to his ears. Rede looked up and her smile was terrible. He offered her one of his own, "Last time I let you put me to sleep," Harry said with a lilt, Lane shifting under him with barely restrained anger, toward the town ahead. A laugh burst out of Rede, and even Raith seemed to shiver in anticipation. "This time I go with you."

To the changeling's right, the Coachman pulled his Kelpie mount into a rear, the beast's fanged maw straining at the bone it had for a bit. Pale leather made it harness, and the Horseman's own sword was in his hands with a flash and cry as the blade ripped though the air. Below the dire messenger, his mount screamed.

Harry recalled the hollow, echoing words as the headless Fey had offered him a blade. It rested on his hip, waiting. Cold and implacable, he knew once it was in his hand, that there would be no return. No more imaginings, no more wistful wandering thoughts on what if, or what could be, had he been just another normal child. A human child, or wizard child.

Blades were meant to sever. The cold weight on his hip would cut something in him, as surely as those he turned it against.

Maeve had said she sent her will with the Coachman, and in this she had made the point quite clear.

He had every intention to act on his godmother's will. It was not a question of if he should act, that weighed on his thoughts. Merely the gravity of result.

On his left, Bane stood proud and fierce, blackened bronze armor across his chest and flanks, while in his hands rested a wicked polearm – half axe and half spear. Three of his closest were with him, flanking him and to the rear of their deadly gathering. He understood now the Centaur's waiting, his anticipation. The seer in him knew this day would come, and he had been mute to say anything, to shift the destiny he'd seen. Resolve like that he could respect, and with a salute to Bane, he turned to the Fey.

Beyond the Coachman, resting in the shadows chattered one of the Kin Harry had only seen once, but then Halloween that year had been strange, and this creature had nearly escaped his memory. Skitterkin as they called themselves, the spider-legged horrors kept well back, as not to spook those of more delicate natures. Beside the dread Horseman, on a Kelpie as well sat Tock. He'd worried at her coming initially, till she had rounded on him with hands snapping and shifting to bronze-colored blades, her pale blue eyes wild. In them he saw the need to balance things, the guilt and anger and blood. In them, he saw himself.

Those with him shifted, as he waited for some signal, something to tell him the time was right. Time ticked by, came and went with the clouds, wispy, uneven things that shrouded the moon. Looking up, he saw wings, small and fast, as those lesser Fey willing had come as well. In their hands he could see barbs and thorns, sharp things that had darkened points.

It seemed to Harry, that one who healed, could also be one who knew best how to harm. He hoped Grissnath's poisons, passed on to the Fey, would help ease the Sluagh's mind, and the little one's need for revenge for their brothers and sisters.

The signal he had waited on was a chill, that swept through Harry, and with it came the winds.

Down in Hogsmeade, the people gathering to toast and celebrate their good fortune went quiet, as the howling of it crashed against walls outside the lane, homes creaking and roofs shedding leaves and fallen limbs from the trees near them.

Over it all, they heard the horns, and the screaming calls of the Fey as the Wild Hunt, the first one to ride in far memory took up the call.

_Ten years old_, Harry thought to himself, ripping Maeve's blade free and screaming at the top of his voice in anger, the blade glinting above him. He would take his first life at ten years old, in payment for those of his friends and kin that had been cut down. With a kick, Lane leaped out and down the hill, Raith and Rede on his heels as the Wild Hunt descended on Hogsmeade.

',',',',',','

When the people of the village saw them, it was a rising tide, one that swelled in him with their fear, nightmares, and imaginings. Now he understood, beyond any shadows, any doubts he may have held. The Redcap's words echoed in his mind, _"It's more, and less,"_ Raith's quiet words sounded, as he felt the fear and terror in the town like a physical thing swell and slap at them.

_"Think, Harry. Fey sweeping over those that wronged them. How would they see it?"_

_"It's like glamor, Harry,"_ Rede's echo continued, _"In the Hunt we are one idea. One action."_ In the miasma of fear, panic, and madness that his Hunt inspired, the changeling could see himself, see the nightmare he had become in being Maeve's will.

See what the town had shaped him into being, with their own black hopes.

The sword he carried was carved of ice and shadow, a thing of half seen shapes and wicked edges that constantly remade itself. Atop his head gleamed a wreath of ghostlight, or ghostfire – he didn't know, didn't care. It was bound starlight, a counter to the darkness in his eyes. From this slight figure atop a leaping, rearing steed they didn't see Harry, though.

The changeling laughed then, delving deeply into Winter's might, as the scent of their madness reached him. Humans, in their arrogance, had hoped for these kinds of nightmares to come on them. In their guilt and anger, the stain spread and darkened their souls, and with him came their salvation. Atonement, the cleansing release of knowing there was a balance.

It almost made him sick, to feel a perverse satisfaction well up in those that screamed and ran from them. They knew this was deserved. In their deepest, most sin-ridden hearts, all the anger and frustration, the horrible fears and rumors had carved out a nest, and from it the Hunt had sprung.

The screaming began in earnest when the Coachman found one of the eight marked, and took his head from his shoulders, spraying those nearby with blood. _No, stupid wizards, this was no trick_, Harry thought, as Lane ran down and brought him to prey, Winter's Edge cutting a bloody trail along a fleeing wizards back that laid bone open to the sky.

Reality came with fear, as Hogsmeade realized this was no vision, no imagined phantasm. Wizards gathered themselves and leveled wands at those of his Hunt.

Harry bore down on one man howling his anger, as the marked, gaping wizard loosed a jet of magic, badly aimed and unsure. Maeve's sword caught and sent it up into the sky, before slashing down, spraying Lane's flank with the man's blood as his arm parted and fell, with half his ruined vest, the man grasping feebly at his ruined ribs. The changeling flashed a feral smile as the man fell in the dust at his feet. He had a moment to watch before Rede was on the man, claws and teeth a flurry of bloody intent. Turned dead black eyes to the plaza and screamed at them, a sound to make frozen lakes crack and shudder, as he rejoined the hunters in search of more prey.

He rode on, watching as his Hunt took the marked, and those that had helped them. Some were laid low on the street, as Harry or the Fey found them. Tock had cut a bloody swath as instead of closing and taking her solace in a single act, she had laid low on the Kelpie's back, letting her limbs spear and slash out, while her mount ripped and tore with its own fangs, not even slowing as they barreled though the defender's line. Some were caught up and taken back to the forest. A Skitterkin held three of the townsfolk in great webbed sacs that it hauled behind it, a chittering chorus rising from its odd mouth, as it worked furiously, and Harry could see another rising up terrible and alien as people before it screamed in horror. The Coachman had two heads, gripped by the hair in his hands, and there was a bloody sack tied to his mount's pommel, a face screaming eternally silent behind the straining and bulging burlap. Tock's arms and body shone gold and crimson, and he could hear her chiming sounding like hammers on an anvil, as she rounded on the humans again.

Another wizard came upon him, his hands up and pleading, eyes wide, "Please, what do you want? Just take it and leave!"

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or his own wild blood, surging frozen through him, but Harry saw the mark on this man and paused. Staring into his eyes, the torches and the baleful glimmer of his own starlit crown, Harry could almost _see_ the man's guilt. Glamor surged, its power a shivering clarion in his heart, as it acted against those thoughts and primal ideals, painting a scene before the man's terrified eyes.

_Ghosts moved in a fleeting dance, the man wielding an old and rusted harvesting sickle as he pointed at the small flock of uncertain Fey that stood between the other villagers, and the stores they'd held for their celebration._

_A single, glinting light came out to meet them, as the ghosts surged toward the Fey, and the man there swung his crude weapon, a look of glee at-_

With a scream that ripped out and blasted away, extinguishing torches and shattering windows, Harry swung his blade through the misty images, as the man yelped and clutched at his grazed shoulder. Luck had let him stumble on a nearby porch, but luck didn't keep it from causing his fall, and Harry leaped down from Lane, the shifter immediately taking on a wolf's guise to better hunt his own prey.

Terrified, the man scrambled back, weakly holding out a wand that sputtered sparks in his panic. Harry dashed up to the man, sword held in a two-handed grip as he screamed again, "Please they were only Fey have mercy!"

His words ended in a choked gulp and strangled sound, as air tried to work past the blood welling up in his lungs, the rime-crusted blade having cut a path from gut to shoulder, showering Harry in the man's blood as his heart parted under the thing's edge. Night-black eyes narrowed at the spray but Harry didn't bother with words, for the dead and damned.

Lane cantered back to him, the silvered hair on his resumed horse's snout maroon with his wolf-guised hunt. With a vault off the deck he was on, Harry settled on the Puka's back, as they rejoined their companions.

More spells began to fly, and the Fey used wisps of ghostflame to shield one another, or simply cut down those stupid enough to stand against Winter. The initial thrust had claimed half their targets, but the village was not without its own anger and hatred. Before the Hunt could strike forward deeper into the town, those who would defend their homes and each other started hurling spells in force. Some of the farmers came with their tools, for lack of spells to cast. Iron tools, that stank of Fey blood.

Another fell to Harry's blade as those came, and he held the edge aloft, blood raining down as he called the Hunt to him.

Raith took a look at the farmers and howled, his face a bloody smear on the night. Their hesitation was all it took, and from the shadows of a nearby building, Rede leaped took three down before they'd even seen her. Into the melee Raith waded, hurling aside the small and weak as he sought powerful prey, throwing the unworthy aside like kindling to break on walls and the corners of houses. With a laugh he saw a man's face simply cease to be under the rampaging Redcap's merciless boot. Spells flew again, but Harry and Lane were between them, sword cutting with a will of its own and hooves lashing out to break bones and tear flesh. A part of him, untouched by the wrath singing in his veins was thankful to Maeve for her gift then. He would have been useless without the bloodthirsty blade, regardless of his desire for vengeance.

Bane's people thundered through the ranks of the wizards then, having held back to flank and disrupt at opportune moments. Harry's own scream joined those around him, when an errant spell cut into his arm. With a roar, Bane took the wizard in the chest with his polearm, hefting him up above the other wizards, showering them with blood and the man's entrails as he screamed, dying on the weapon.

The defense broke then, and the people of the town scattered, those that remained. The frostblade sheathed, Harry kept that hand against his arm, willing the pain away as he watched the Hunt collect their trophies, and the Centaur the lost harvest. Tock and the Horseman set ghostflames among the bloody houses lining the town, feeding them with hate and their vengeance. Magical dwellings collapsed in minutes, the balefire's glow painting the streets an eerie blue and green. Harry felt weak, without Maeve's will in hand, and without pause the Hunt turned from their final work and thundered from the town amid the horns that had heralded it once more.

Claimed were the damned, and their message sent.

They rode then, or ran and skittered, back to the sanctuary of the wood and its embracing shadow. He knew he wasn't the only injured, but it wasn't important. Wizards had died, to balance the deaths of his kin that night. Harry knew that some part of him, his human half should be appalled at what had happened, but he also knew that when he took up Maeve's gift, that part of him would never have the same hold.

Those people had the chance to make him a part of their town. He had never been human to them, to anyone in this world. Embracing his godmother was not a question. To that voice he offered the bodies of the dead Fey, his own first and most loyal friend laying bleeding and weak on a pitiful cot. That nagging voice went still, as the sound of the Fey's vindictive calls echoed about the wood, Lane's hooves thundering below him.

Into the forest and its shadows they returned, the long ride to Marshlight a grim parade of those now satiated from their vengeance, trophies held high and bloody garments worn with savage pride. Harry's heart pumped icewater through his veins, as he looked up and smiled at the clear night, a tired but exultant cast to his face. It wasn't a happy smile, not in the way he'd remembered one feeling at least. Something in him had changed today, a pressure and break. He could imagine it, a bone, some delicate thing in his chest that all the rage and unhappiness that had been pushed onto him since the Dursleys and now Hogsmeade had leaned on, sat upon and strained for years. It had snapped, and suddenly he felt relieved. It hurt – there was a gap there now, between those people and him that he would never want to bridge. Despite that feeling, he needed the break. Needed the release of that ache. Too long had it sat and gnawed at his heart. Strange medicine, but healing nonetheless.

He caught the flash of vermilion and silver in the moonlight, gold eyes meeting his before another howl pealed out over the deep woods, announcing them. Like Rede and Raith, he had taken his vengeance. This time, he had done it himself.

',',',',',','

News of the madness and terror that had gripped Hogsmeade spread, and Harry waited, tense and ready for the fallout to come to his home. He had no illusions of fighting off a town full of wizards, but then they had kept their distance so far.

Tock, Grissnath and Bane had all agreed he should be seen at the Shack the next day, once Maeve's influence on him dimmed and he regained his normal air. He'd been shocked to see his own reflection and face in the pools outside Marshlight, but the Horseman's words that as he calmed, so too would calm his Fey blood reassured the changeling.

He had looked very much Maeve's own, till dawn the coming day.

Regretfully he'd parted with Ixi, the little one as shocked as he at the changes in him but trilling in a content and happy way as well. He told her of the Hunt, how he and his had taken blood for blood. Ixipti had pulled his hand close and nuzzled his palm, before drifting back off, a satisfied smile on her face.

It was that memory that kept him sane, the following day as wizards flocked all over the town like vultures, red and blue cloaks prominent in almost every street and corner. Rede and Raith had wanted to stay with him, begged but Harry had refused them. If something happened, they needed to stay in the wood, to defend Marshlight. Grudgingly they had agreed, but once they were gone, Harry missed the pale-haired siblings and their easy company.

Flitwick came shortly after breakfast, seeing Harry on the rolling lawn and sitting beside him in a terse swirl of robes and cloak.

The two of them sat silently and watched, as the brightly cloaked forms levitated black-bagged masses away, or pulled people aside to ask questions. It seemed that the nearby bar, the Three Broomsticks had been made into a make-shift center, as the chaos in the town was set to rights.

"Was it necessary?"

Beside him, Harry could feel the Charms Master, watching him with wary knowledge. Closing his eyes, the changeling heaved a sigh, "Do you know what I don't understand?"

Filius made to ask him to elaborate, but Harry cut him off, "I'm one person. Just a kid really, trying to just be that. A kid. I tried to keep separate when they wanted nothing to do with me." The diminutive professor had taught in many capacities for as many years, and had many students with guilty consciences come to him with their heavy hearts before. Sometimes, it wasn't guilt that brought out such strained words, he recalled then.

Sometimes it was a heart so full of what had caused the act, it had yet to empty. "I don't... care. I look out there and I just can't bring myself to care, after what happened."

Chilled, Flitwick recalled something, so inane that it had passed by him almost unnoticed over the summer. Tiny gears clicked into place, as events all found their way into a single place. Every time he had fished with the child, he had flinched as the young changeling set his hooks. It was a silly, pointless and in his mind, idiotic thing, but even with something so simple as a worm, he hated to see suffering. Watching Harry impale, then toy with and then shake the bait-worms so they would make better lures from their bleeding had shaken him. It wasn't the acts – Flitwick knew the why, he had taught the boy after all, but he didn't enjoy what he did.

Again, Harry would almost idly slay the fish he caught, and true it was humane, but it was his manner that shook Filius.

The rage and hate that had filled him when he'd summoned the boy off the bullies in the street. It was the same dullness, that filled Harry's eyes then as before. The pain he'd caused, even in such small things, meant nothing to him.

"Do you know what iron does to Fey, sir?"

Harry's question made the little man flinch back, pulling him out of his musing, and only then did he notice the lack of the boy's almost constant Troupe. Not even the small Fey that so amusingly nested in the boy's hair was present, and he searched Harry's green eyes for hope that his fears were unfounded.

Shaking his head, Harry returned the man's gaze steadily, a coldness there that had nothing to do with his godmother's throne, "They sought us out, our preparations in the wood. They attacked Ixipti and her kind with _iron_."

"Is... oh Merlin. Is that why-"

"She'll live. She'll always have that scar as a reminder. Fey like her... did you know they would only bear scars if they were harmed by iron?" Harry asked, watching as another black mass was taken by, the figures small as his thumb in the distance from the Shack's rolling lawns. "Other's won't bear scars, though."

Flitwick blinked, unable to follow the boy's rambling thoughts, his thick emotions pushing him in strange directions. The youth he'd summered with, fishing, walking in the wood, speaking on such light things as Quidditch and puzzles and games was gone. Beside him sat a grim young person, not a boy it seemed anymore, but young still. Eyes clouding, Filius surprised himself with a sniffle, as his breath hitched. He mourned that passing, he realized. "Did it have to be you, Harry? You are so young..."

Wordlessly, Harry passed the little man Maeve's letter. Glamors had been cast on it, so it would never tear, or wither or fade. Harry had made sure that night would not be forgotten, "She is my family. I almost lost her. I did lose others." Looking at the professor's widening eyes, Harry tried to smile, but it was a faint, sickly thing, "They were my responsibility, sir."

"_Maeve_," the word seemed to dry all the moisture in the Charms Master's throat, and he reached into a pocket for a small potion, a Calming Draught for both its effect and wetness. "My... oh my." Shaking his head, the half-blooded professor looked to Harry with new eyes, handing him the letter. "I think I understand."

"I still don't, really," Harry replied, as if he were speaking of the weather an they it rained so much in spring. "The anguish and loss when we found out those... _wizards_," Flitwick flinched at the sudden venom in the word, but didn't look away. "When we found out they used iron. Do you know what it means? Grissnath wouldn't explain it, but he was so terrified..."

Flitwick's blood seemed to still in veins at that question. How to tell such a thing, explain to the boy? Nothing could destroy a soul, not wholly, but to some it wasn't such an immutable thing. Fey... so strong in some ways, but so vulnerable in others. How to tell a ten year old youth that such a death for a Fey was as good as erasing its very existence, giving it nothing but a twisted, mad eternity to suffer as its soul worked to unhouse itself in anguish, again and again, hoping beyond the taint it bore to shed it on its next rebirth.

The answer was simple – he couldn't. So young, the boy would be broken by the brutality of it, that he had nearly lost someone so close to such a fate. That he had lost... _Oh, Merlin_. Not for the first time he cursed himself as well, when he recalled Harry's hatred of wizarding kind. It was long past the time he could gently introduce the boy to his own future, his parent's legacy. Would Dumbledore had told him? His previous family? What would he do, now, faced with the fact he too was included in that near-epithet?

"I wonder, professor, at my future. Something Maeve said, why Dumbledore put me here, of all places strikes me as... well strange." Paling, Flitwick turned to regard Harry as the boy sat, his knees up and arms stretched out along the ground, looking as any youth his age would. "I'm one of them, aren't I?"

Swallowing, Filius nodded, feeling his thoughts had betrayed him. "Yes. Your parents were wizards. You'll be one too, one day." He said with an edge of assurance, knowing the child of those two brilliant minds could be great, then realizing he had neither Lily's calm assurance and strength, or James' lighthearted character. Harry was their child, yes, be he wasn't their _son_.

Brow furrowing, Harry thought on Filius' words and stilled, as wizards came and went into the nearby inn. As they did, the town seemed to draw in on itself. Houses were repaired, storefronts he knew were being reset and stocked. People mailed their mail, peddled their wares, and lived their lives – and the stink of fear and resignation was a cloud, hanging over the street. Some mourned, some raved, but gone was the spike, the acidic thrill of threat he'd felt. Gone too was the vital spark, yet he could still feel their energy.

He likened it to feeding on rancid meat, and closed his Fey nature to them, as best he could.

He was glad that the Hunt had swept over them, purging their hearts of the poison that his nature cultivated in them. The Fey had harvested that crop, and left them tilled and bare. He was awed and disappointed in their weakness though. The town had been rising on a tide of its own madness for years, since he arrived, and now with the wave broken on jagged rocks, they retreated sullen and unmade. Hogsmeade's spirit had been broken, if it even had one to begin with.

He was a wizard, Flitwick had assured him. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, thinking about the town. The cowards that lived there, "I'm not so sure."

',',',',',','

_Terror – Madness Grips Tiny Township!_

_Readers may remember this summer's biggest news, that a pack of mad Fae had attacked a local and well-respected member of society._

_The Prophet brings you the gruesome details of further hardship, in the humble hamlet of Hogsmeade._

_As the peaceful and quiet town bordering Britain's own Hogwarts had begun their harvest festival, a yearly event usually planned for late September, tragedy stuck. Witnesses reported seeing monsters too terrible to describe, ranging from giant insects, soldiers without heads, demons in the shape of horses, a fantastic metal golem, mutant werewolves, and what was purported to be a ghost with a sword – all having swept into the town during celebrations._

_No evidence of werewolves or demons were detected of course – it being days from the full moon. Nor were there any traces of these apparitions, yet reportedly the Ministry tracked quite a few spells cast that night. The Ministry also reported that among hidden stores throughout the town, strange foodstuffs of unknown nature had been found, all having euphoric and unusual effects on the consumer. Despite its barely-magical nature, those foodstuffs, the reports or unbelievable monsters, and the very real death toll of nearly twenty witches and wizards had lead the Ministry to consider placing an armed guard at the town, to stave off further incident._

_Why do we seem so skeptical, dear reader? When questioned, many of the town's folk seemed sullen and unwilling to comment, and none would or could explain the strange food. Further questions hinted that the items had came from an unknown location, but none of those named were able to respond._

_Due to being quite dead._

_Isn't it quite strange, that the only witnesses to such an unnatural thing as mysteriously appearing food, on a holiday that some say was cursed by not just vengeful spirits but possibly even the very Faeries that had attacked over the summer, were all missing? That's right, readers. Not one named that had returned to Hogsmeade that day with the strange spoils lived through the night._

_Reports resurfaced then, of strange, Faerie-grown grains being present during the summer incident at the Hog's Head. When questioned on the connection between the two incidents, and the possibility that the town itself had called down the vengeance of wronged Faeries, Unspeakable Croaker had this to say:_

_"No comment."_

_I believe we can all read between the lines, this time._

_Our surprise only increased, when a number of the town's citizenry blamed the recently-inhabited Shrieking Shack and its residents as the cause for their problems. None were willing to detail how or why such a thing would occur, and your daring reporter braved the most haunted building in all of magical Britain to see for herself what could possibly cause such wild claims._

_Imagine my surprise to see a young, not-quite school-aged boy with raven locks and piercing green eyes, sitting and having a lemonade on the small porch of the Shrieking Shack. The youth greeted us politely, and invited us into what I can only explain as a very spartan and rather rough-lived in home, in which he lives without guardians or parents. If this were not strange enough, imagine our shock, dear readers, to learn that this boy's name was Harry Potter. That's right Britain, the Boy Who Lived resurfaces, supposedly the cause of Hogsmeade's terror._

_We at the Prophet find it difficult to believe, but we can assure that the young Boy Who Lived makes a rather terrifying and hauntingly good glass of lemonade._

_For the Ministry's stance on the inclusion of Fairies as Dark Creatures, see page 2__  
For more on the Boy Who Lived, see pages 3-12__  
For more on magical, drug-related madness, see page 15__  
For more on Hogsmeade and its history of insanity during the Goblin wars, as reported by Hogwart's own professor Binns, see pages 21-35  
For Madam Rosmerta's Lemonade Sour recipe, see back cover._

Albus Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts, his nearly month-old copy of a hastily Portkey enchanted Prophet gripped in hand. Not bothering with the formalities of greetings and reports of his professors, the Headmaster tossed a handful of ash into the fireplace and in moments was hurrying into the back room of a stunned Hog's Head tavern.

Waiting for him, a new bright scar over his eye and reaching up into his hairline, sat Aberforth. "About bloody time you-"

The man cut off as a wave of magic swept through the room, knocking the old wizard off his chair and rattling the one painting in the room, startling its previously smiling resident. Albus glared down at the man, laying and running a hand over his new scar, magic whipping about him in his rage. "I gave you one task, Aberforth. A simple thing – watch a child. What do I find, then?" Albus' newspaper was flung down at the younger Dumbledore's feet. "Not only is he now without the protection of anonymity, or the Shack's reputation, but the town itself blames him for this... idiocy?"

"Merlin curse you, you conceited, arrogant, fool!" Aberforth stood, wand out this time and launched a series of spells that had the elder Dumbledore raising hasty shields. "Did you read nothing of my letters? Did you fail, yet again, to open your eyes to the reality happening all around you while chasing stupid dreams with those ancient ghouls!"

Albus snarled, his lip curling as he snapped a quick series of spells at his brother. None were lethal of course, but very few were very kind either. Three missed entirely, but one clipped the painting behind Aberforth and set the frame to shaking and rattling badly. "My work with the Flamels was necessary, Aberforth. I would not be absent so long unless it were so."

Sneering and taking a moment to gather his breath, Aberforth regarded his estranged brother with open contempt. "Necessary for who?"

Eyes narrowing behind half-moon glasses, Albus snapped out another series of spells, as Aberforth simply rolled to the side, peering intently at where they struck the wall. "I had to go, Aber. There was no other way."

"What stake it is of yours, Albus? Planning to curse this world forever with your simpering, cocksure, bullshit?" Shocked by his brother's rancor, Albus dropped his guard a moment, which was all it took for Aberforth to snap a binding jinx at him, following it with a borderline-dark paralysis curse. Struggling to get his magic to counter those spells, he winced as his brother shoved the tip of his wand below his chin, "You left me that... _boy_, knowing nothing about him. I don't even know what it is about the child, but there's something just wrong about him, Albus."

"He has a task to do, Aberforth. I can't tell you, but it was vital he be kept safe, and apart from the wizarding world as best as we could. Now that Voldemort's followers-"

"So?" Another jab of the wand, and the younger Dumbledore pulled his brother around, facing the room. "He's dead. What about him?"

The Headmaster's lips thinned, as he glared at his brother. "Fine then. Don't talk. But know this, Albus. You're falling into old habits again. Nicolas was an idealist at three-hundred. He's been alive too long to remember anything but his own crusades and plots. We aren't people to that man anymore, Albus. Just chess pieces. You better keep your mind well and far from that 'Greater Good' foolishness."

"It has to be done, sometimes. Sometimes there just isn't a choice," Albus replied weakly.

"Let me remind you what happened the last time you pushed that garbage," pointing over the elder Dumbledore's shoulder, Aberforth's finger jabbed at the portrait, now ripped and with half its frame falling off, from the Headmaster's spells. With horror sketched easily on his features, Albus recognized the image, back in the furthest corner of the painted room, of a young girl who cowered, her hands over her head as she sobbed, silently. "All for the Greater fucking Good, you old bastard?

"I'll be sure to tell Ariana that, when I can get her out of the corner again. Get out of my bar, Albus before I break your bloody nose again. Get out and don't come back," releasing his bonds, Aberforth turned to the painting of his dead sister, and did his best to fix the portrait's frame.

He didn't bother to turn around, when the door behind him quickly opened and shut.

',',',',',','

Albus walked in a daze though the streets of Hogsmeade, absently greeting those he passed. His mind was still back in Aberforth's rooms, still on the cowering image of Ariana and his own guilt and mistakes.

He knew what he'd done was wrong, but the driving need to do what he must, could not be ignored. While his absence for much of the past two years with the Flamels had been a strain on the school and Aberforth with his task, he felt that with Nicolas' help and advice that much could be done to settle matters with the shadow of Voldemort. The attempt on the stone had been a hasty thing, badly planned as if the one who had done so were truly desperate or mad. Immediately Dumbledore had suspected some hand of Voldemort in it.

With the Flamel's Stone, there was no predicting what evils the defeated dark Lord or his followers could enact. Their work with the Stone hinted even that with the proper rituals, it could be used to restore the vanquished madman's body.

Such dire news was not to be taken lightly, and so he had to take the time to make sure. Fearing with the coming exposure of Harry Potter to the wizarding world in general that Voldemort would take a more active role, the Headmaster sent word for his Deputy to begin strengthening the castle's defenses. Staff would be alerted or altered to the possibility of a threat, but not its source yet. There was no reason to instill panic, without cause.

Yet, even with all his efforts, panic had come, and in the middle of it again sat Harry Potter.

His mind nearly on reflex turned to the comfort of the school, its ancient magics and halls soothing to his rattled mind. As he concentrated on Hogwarts, his Occlumency strengthened, the jumble and shatter of thoughts collecting, sorting and stilling.

Minerva had kept him abreast of the castle's work, the easy ebb and flow of student affairs a simple thing to oversee. She took to the work with a gusto, and he was happy to let her. Being Headmaster wasn't a difficult thing, in truth, as Hogwarts now all but ran itself. Elves tended the feeding of students, and the cleaning of the halls and dorms. Portraits reported to the head of the school, anything that needed immediate attention, much like the ghosts. The professors themselves maintained order and discipline, organizing their events and classes and detentions.

What duties were left that only the Headmaster could attend, he did so between his bouts of research and discussion with Nicolas and Perenelle.

Mind more at ease, he returned his attentions to the current problem at hand, letting his attentions wander about Hogsmeade. The town was subdued, like many he'd wandered across during the later parts of Grindelwald's campaign. Oh, it still stood, unlike most of those before, but there was a deadened feel to it. The hum of energy, a vitality had been strained and worn thin.

He had no idea what to think of the article that the Prophet had published. Such a mad recount of events couldn't be possible, but the signs pointed to a more sinister, larger issue. This was twice in a single year that Fairies had possibly been active, and such a thing was nearly unheard of in these increasingly modern times. Yet, something about this event seemed familiar. It tickled at the Headmaster's memory, pulled at his attention, sitting behind his eyes.

Sighing, the aged wizard rubbed at his temple. He was in no state to try and force a memory, today. Soon perhaps, he could coax that thread forward, but for now it would remain. Things forgotten caused him to grimace, guilt washing over him.

Despite the constant updates from Minerva, one thing had slipped through his notice, and it pained him to admit it. Aberforth's letters had been set aside, for the most part, their tone reminiscent of old missives between the two.

He gathered Harry was well, if not meshing fully with the town. This, Albus had decided, would be for the best. His reasoning was that if the boy made little contact, there was less chance of a sympathizer to the dark acting against him, finding him out.

How wrong he had been, a trend he was finding tiresome in regard to the young boy. Never had he imagined things could have escalated to what he now saw.

Despite the cool and pleasantly clear autumn day, fear ran through the town like a physical thing. He found no trace of the rumors that Aberforth or the Prophet had hinted at, as his inquiries were met with near panic. Unsure how to proceed, Albus sat at a small shop, content for now to stare at the street, lost in thought.

Hours it seemed later, he came back to himself with a start. Before him, walking toward the Shack was Harry Potter. He watched the child and his strange, unfamiliar friends make their way from a shop down the lane toward the Shack. Albus quietly watched from his chair outside a tea shop, either unseen or forgotten in the nearly two years since their brief association as the boy walked by him.

He watched, darkly fascinated as people shied from the child and his companions. Like a prow of a boat slipping through water, the child's presence parted the town's goings-on, only after he'd passed did it continue on, but disturbed and with eddies. Under it all, he could feel their guilt, underlying the fear. Something had happened, something that ran counter to Harry's seemingly unburdened laughter with his companions, and was rooted in the cold, aching worry that shot through the town around him.

Standing discreetly, he followed as the child walked, watching for the things Aberforth hinted at. For all his anxiety and worry though, the child seemed to only care about his conversation. He tried to avoid people as they avoided him, stepping politely aside when he wasn't seen. Albus watched in confusion as young Potter greeted and chatted quite animatedly with Filius, the Charms Master and head of Ravenclaw House.

Nothing added up. The Prophet, Hogsmeade, Aberforth – none of it fit together to equal Harry Potter.

As the cover of buildings and lanes faded, Dumbledore called out to the child he'd left, seasons ago, "Harry! It's been ages, good morning!" Painting a smile over his worry, the Headmaster was glad to see the youth despite the grim news, strange cast and gloom about the town. He would try to speak with the boy directly, and see what had happened to polarize the town in such a way.

Harry turned with a surprised look, and waved to the Headmaster, having a quick word to his friends.

As Albus approached, the two other children, siblings by their shared appearance scampered off, earning a chuckle from the Headmaster. He'd often felt his presence too weighted, to those that recognized him, and sometimes felt that the decision to sit for that Chocolate Frog card was a mistake. Still, he was glad to have young Harry to himself for a few moments and words, hoping somehow to find a cause for this strangeness.

Harry had heard from Ixipti, riding again comfortably in his nest of hair, that the Headmaster had been watching him for some time. He didn't question how she knew – feeling it something particular to her. The little Fey simply knew better than him what was going on about her, an instinct of sorts he assumed. When he'd heard her warning, the Redcaps and he had left the cowering shopkeeper to their work, taking a few parcels and oddments with them.

Since the Hunt, the town had been accommodating, if scared mindless of him. The connection between his Winter self that night and the young boy was never made – who would believe a still recently ten year old boy to be riding at the head of a Troupe of wild Fey and Centaur? Such thoughts made him smile. Still, his foul reputation painted him as cause, much to the town's embarrassment. It seemed that doing such a silly thing, despite who they felt or knew, only turned against them.

As they made the way back to the Shack, he wondered at the Headmaster's reason for suddenly reappearing. A few dropped words from Flitwick had hinted the man had been away possibly, but Harry simply didn't know.

For their outing, Rede and Raith were wearing glamors that masked their natures, painting them as young children Harry's age and with colors more suited to humans than Fey about their features. He didn't trust the people of Hogsmeade any more than he could throw them, and the old rules of distance and backup held. At the Headmaster's approach they darted away to hide among the trees and shadows, lee and shade of the nearby town. Once away, they dropped the glamors and faded from view, but followed nonetheless.

Albus approached with a smile, probably the first Harry had seen on a wizard since last summer. It tugged at him a bit, and he grinned back. "It has been a while, Headmaster," he greeted in return, Ixipti stifling a trilling giggle from behind his ear.

The two walked amicably down the lane, unseeing the disbelieving gazes of the townsfolk.

"So how have you been doing, my boy," Albus asked, the morning sun behind them as they walked.

Harry regarded him with a slow smile, "Oh, a little bored now and then. The town seems to make its own excitement though. Can't say as it's something I'm used to."

The Headmaster's smile faltered slightly, but didn't leave completely. Of course the lad would have noticed magic by now, but he didn't seem to carry the air of one who had stumbled on celebrity. Could his identity, fame be a secret still? Impossible. The Prophet's reporters would have a fortune on their hands thanks to this find. It was something to look into, now that he was back, at how much knowledge of his own history the boy had learned.

Dumbledore looked about the Shack as they approached, nodding while peering through his glasses at the relatively plain building. Flitwick's wards shone, clear and strong. Something seemed lacking, but he shook off the notion. The Charms Master would not half-complete any job given, to his credit. "So I've heard," the Headmaster answered, returning his gaze to the young boy, rather growing boy, beside him. "It seems the years away from the Dursleys have treated you well. Has Hogsmeade been good to you?"

"Those that keep me company have been, yes," the changeling answered with a grin. "Oh, would you come inside? I forget about the door sometimes."

"Yes, if you don't mind. Ease these old bones a moment," Albus replied with a brief laugh.

Passing the threshold, the Headmaster was struck with a dizzying impulse, but shook it off easily. Testing his Occlumency, he found nothing, no trace of magic against his mind. Perhaps it was just the change in sun... only now he was faced with a slightly worse version of the Shack he'd left the child in two years ago. "So little difference here. I worried you'd not decorate, or ask Milly to help make the Shack more comfortable." The Headmaster waited a moment, then blinked, confused. He'd expected the elf to appear when mentioned, particularly when he had layered his words with a task to be done, yet she was absent.

He recalled the elf's words, so long ago then, and sent a sharp look to the boy, who seemed unconcerned. Harry seemed to grasp his meaning, shrugging, "I don't think she likes it here, she doesn't seem to stay long, really," Harry replied, shrugging indifferently. "What I need, those nearby provide. I've never been one for excess, so really just that is enough."

Heartened by those words, Albus nodded, filing away the need to speak with Milly soon. He wanted to know precisely why the elf had abandoned her duty. The Headmaster was also relieved at the youth's honesty with him and humility – though he'd not used true Legilimency against the lad, he could sense lies easy enough, and nothing the boy had spoken was untruthful. The simple contentment with his life in the Shack also sat well, as Albus had worried on the Boy Who Lived becoming too willful with that title and fame upon him.

Albus sat happily at Harry's table, content to share a few moments to catch up with the youth. They chatted about random things, pointless and light, and Harry picked his words carefully but didn't lie – not wholly. Unlike what he'd learned of Summer's Court, the Unseelie had no binding for truth and honor. Still, this man had provided him a home, and a means to survive. That Milly had abandoned him wasn't the man's fault, he supposed. The poor Boggan would have choked on the thickness of the Middleworld that had seeped into the Shack since Harry's taking it over.

That made Harry respect the man, rather than lump him in with the fools of Hogsmeade. So he smiled and it was a real smile, not the simple baring of teeth he gave those of the town, as they talked. Harry spoke of quiet and mostly uneventful days, all the while trying desperately to ignore the raucous chattering laughter from atop his head.

',',',',',','

A/N: Lack of Ministry reaction? See Prophet article... Sorry if I've not replied to reviews. No sleep this week. Thanks for the help to polish this goes to the DLP crew, past (Lookin at you MM2) and present.


	10. Ouroboros

**Ouroboros**

_"Happily ever after. Well, that's boring as all fuck, now innit? Yeah, lets not ever go that route, hm?" -Alice o'Hearts_

',',',',',','

The late August morning did little to dent the night's chill, as autumn was swiftly approaching, but it made a valiant effort. Hogsmeade greeted the new day wearily, and its grizzled face was on open display to the new students. They arrived from portkeys to the lane outside the Three Broomsticks, bundled in a dizzying array of winter clothes ranging from cloaks and robes to heavy hiking jackets, some sporting their pointed school hats as well. Plain to see did not mean easily seen, as the maybe two dozen children gaped and looked around, the castle and its bordering lake to the east, and the town proper extending down High Street to the west catching and holding their wide eyes. Eyes that saw everything at once and nothing at all.

Over the din of excited chatter, a single, strident voice called the group into order. "Students! Your attention," Minerva McGonagall stood easily over the flock of new and eager witches and wizards, years of calm stoicism keeping the pride and happiness she felt from showing. "We well begin a short tour of Hogsmeade, then move on to the castle proper soon. I am happy to see the turn-out for our orientation program this year, and hope you all come to see Hogwarts as being the amazing institution it is.

"The lane to my right leads to the school," indicating the path toward Hogwarts, the professor paused, "please make yourselves aware of your surroundings." The students looked either way, noting directions, but regardless of its offset from the town's lane or its non-assuming exterior, more than one young child saw the old, dark house upon a twisting lane that stretched behind the stern woman. Striding to her left, she beckoned with a called, "To me!" and lead the muggle-born and half-blood children on the beginning of their introduction to the magical world.

Harry waited a handful of moments for the last footsteps to fade down High Street, before dropping his glamors and revealing himself against the low wall that circled the Shrieking Shack. As he did so, two more figures faded into view, both slightly taller and looking to be in their early or mid teens. Both sported the same fall of silver-white hair, topped by a neat red cap, rough clothes suited for work and heavy metal boots. The taller and broader of the two was furiously rubbing at his shoulder, as the other glared, fists on her hips.

"Raith, quit staring at them like they're walking kebobs!"

Chuckling, Harry was at least glad the two managed to keep quiet long enough for them to hold their cover. He'd watched this scene before, the new children running amok through the town for two other years worth of new students, but this year was different.

This year, Harry had received a letter as well. "C'mon Rede, don't tell me you weren't eyeing that dark haired girl because of her clothes." Harry pushed off from the wall, grinning as the Fey sputtered behind him, Raith catching up in a stride to shadow the changeling.

Harry glanced to the side, where the broad form of Raith walked beside him easily. The seasons of tense peace between the Shack and Hogsmeade had been good for his close friends, and the quiet but intense male Redcap had apparently hit his growth. There were hints of it happening last year, but beside his sister, the changes were rather obvious.

Rede slipped up to his other side, a lithe but taller compliment to her brother. Harry had no illusions on her physical strength, compared with Raith, knowing well the two were simply different sides of a coin. Snorting, he pointed to the children scampering in the distance, the lot moving from storefront to storefront like a flock of birds. "I can't believe those will be my classmates."

Raith made a noise, somewhere between a sniff and a laugh, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Shaking his head, Harry watched as the small pack of would-be-wizards followed the professor into the Post Office. "Want to? Not in the least...

"I have to though. You two are getting too tall and menacing to bully anymore."

Raith stifled a chuckle, while Rede proceeded to pound Harry's upper arm into a loving shade of purple, her fist a very apt paintbrush. Harry meant what he said though, and considered his own motivations for playing along with the letter and the Headmaster who delivered it.

He had no desire to be a wizard. Having dealt with the biases and views of Hogsmeade, there was a definite lack of empathy, a failure to find in himself that desire to be a part of such a community. Despite that rather telling argument, there was a sense of excitement to the idea of going to school again. There were no such things in the Fey world, most of the kin learning from one another, or on their own in time. He would be lying to say he didn't miss classes, the interaction of peers... but that was the past.

These future wizards could never be his peers, and he wasn't the person he once was.

There was another reason, one he was still puzzling out in his mind as he followed the tour from a distance. Before the previous fall and its Hunt, he never gave much thought to the extent his own nature depended on the emotional effluvia of the town. Hogsmeade, sitting there in its bigotry and hate had been an easy but inelegant buffet for his Fey nature. The Unseelie inside him had glutted on it, grown strong, and crowed for more greedily. As resilient as it seemed, Hogsmeade had its limits, and he had pushed and pushed without even realizing it, until it had broken.

Though he didn't want to really admit it to himself, he was _hungry_. He needed that impetus, that cloud of emotions and imaginings that he was the center of. Harry didn't balk at it for its grounding in his Fey nature, so much as the sheer alien idea that he had been feeding for years on the very reactions he'd come to despise in those people. Fed until they were exhausted, dried up, and unpalatable. It was harrowing in a way to see, looking back, and a potent lesson.

He needed to control that side of him, or the scene could repeat itself. How far would it spiral this time, who would be hurt? Would he lose Rede, or Raith? Those thoughts, spurred on with his invitation to Hogwarts had Maeve's godson thinking about what benefits, beyond learning more of his neglected nature, could be found there.

Before they made it too far into the town, the Redcaps cast their glamors and faded into their more human guises, hair dulling and clothes mimicking those that the wizards wore. It was a thin disguise, as the very small town knew all its own children, and these two belonged to no one but Harry. Fear kept the town silent, as the strange boy from the Shack and his phantoms walked out in the daylight. He could feel the stirrings in his nature, the beast inside him reacting to the new minds, the fresh dreamers there. He leashed it hard and stifled it, trying to think human thoughts.

This newest crop hadn't been turned yet. No sense starting off on the wrong foot.

Harry had no need to go along with the orientation group, but he did want to observe those that would be his new classmates. He listened in while McGonagall, as Flitwick had identified her, told the students about owl post, demonstrating with one of the birds there. He tuned out the discussion on Diagon, having no plans to go or contact anyone in the London-based shopping district. He was already familiar with the owl post, and had arranged with Flitwick's help to get almost everything, his wand had become a sticking point. According to the short professor, that was a rather personal item, and had to be matched and mated in person.

He let his thoughts linger on that topic, blending into the noise and press of new students, as he looked back toward where the Shack, and he hoped, his future waited.

',',',',',','

It was at once everything she was hoping for and the worst disappointment of her life.

When Hermione Granger found out she was magical, it had been... well _magical_. With the utter assurance of a child that knew she was right, Hermione decided that while she knew quite a lot about the world already, knowing even more would be better. That youthful naiveté told her that her world, the non-magical one, could only be enriched by such a brilliant opportunity, could this simply could not be missed. With such a strong will, convincing her parents had then been less an effort as a matter of time and logic.

It explained _her_. Her thirst for knowledge had to be a result of simply not having what she needed. Lacking magic in her world was akin to lacking fundamental nutrition, she had decided. Accidental magic was her hunger pangs, and with this new world opening up, she would happily delve and dive into all that was there, knowing it was right. All the small nuances, the strange events that never added up were now explained – in part. She did magic, yet what _was_ magic?

Long ago she began the long task of a simple, fundamental ideal. Understanding. To take questions, and answer them. There had been no good answers, and like any young child, her very pointed question had caused no small upset in the adults that tried to explain such things to her. The answer she had received to a simple question, she had assumed it to be simple, was utterly unsatisfying.

Putting her irritation at that particular setback aside, the next crippling disappointment had occurred shortly after meeting with their orientation group.

It was a blind, baseless hope, she realized, that had buoyed her forward after meeting McGonagall. This amazing witch was able to do such spectacular things – and Hermione was a witch as well. McGonagall had shown a keen intelligence and grasp of logic in approaching Hermione's questions, giving her answers that satisfied without revealing too much about the secret world as well. She was already warming to the stern woman, an outlook and personality that she respected and had grown comfortable with from her mother. Her reasons for feeling the professor a kindred spirit aside, her logic was screaming to her not to jump to the conclusion she was grasping for. She had wrongfully assumed that the other new students like her would be just that; like her.

Hermione winced as another fit of giggles came from behind her, a sound she remembered far too readily from her non-magical schooling. Regardless of direction and intent, the sound set her on edge, and she clutched at the familiar weight of a textbook in reflex. These children were as immature and unapproachable as all her previous classmates. They had a fundamental failing, that being they were _children_.

She maintained her gloomy mindset, updating mental lists of faces to place with names, then traits for each. So far she had a very good idea who she could and could not deal with, based on reactions to their tour, observations on behavior, and other ephemera like clothes, gesture, accents and familiarity with this new world.

As she contemplated what to do with this short list of possible future acquaintances and peers (she didn't dare jinx herself with thinking the word _friend_), the girl noted with some exasperation that typical social ranking and pecking orders had usurped her planning.

All the children she had placed in a tentative 'approach and make contact' list had gravitated with the standard deviation of error to a nearby table.

What felt like a lifetime ago, she had read a book, and in it a particular passage had stuck with her. It was very much how she felt, right now, all over again.

_"And I stood in the surf, feeling the majesty and power of the ocean, looming, waiting out before me. And I could not comprehend it. And so, I stood there, my feet barely wet with its touch and said to myself, 'Ah, the ocean', because nothing else would seem fitting._

_"It was powerful, in itself and its potential. I feared and yet longed for it._

_"The next time I felt that fear, I stood by a playground watching children at play._

_"And so I said to myself, 'Ah, children'."_

Walking forward, she tried hard to ignore the stab of anxiety when four new faces turned curiously to her, but still her voice warbled as she stood by an empty chair, "Hi, I'm Hermione Granger. May I sit with you?"

',',',',',','

Harry watched dispassionately as those wizards and witches his age gravitated to small groups and settled into chairs outside the parlor. It was a nice cafe, he recalled, with an awning that refreshed the air below in a comfortable breeze every so often, and charms that let those at a table speak freely. When he was welcome in the town still, it was a place he and Flitwick would go, with the Redcaps or one of the other glamored Fey and just sit, talk, and laugh.

The memory made him somewhat ill, and he turned from the sight. "Lets go. Maeve said she'd be here once the sun started to fall." Without waiting on a response or acknowledgment he strode down High Street, not bothering to furl his presence as he dwelled on memory. People around the streets suddenly shivered, found urgent and distant things to do, or settled into dark musings in his wake.

Rede spared her twin a look, brow furrowed. Her sibling shook his head slowly, shrugging toward the sound of happy, lighthearted chatter and strode after the changeling and their friend. Looking back toward the mass of young humans, she sighed and followed after.

Though he hadn't found the want or urge to attend the classes for wizards at the castle, Harry had to admit their use. He'd seen the damage done to those of the Hunt the previous autumn, and respected that power. Regardless of his reasons, as he had many both for and against the school, he felt it pull to him.

Rather he felt the pull of all the people inside of it. The magic and the minds, all working so studiously at turning something amazing and wondrous into a rote system of garbled words and waving wands. Dreamers, as the siblings called humans, and other than Hogsmeade, Hogwarts itself was the next nearest concentration of them.

The impulse _irritated_ him, but ever since receiving his letter, he'd hedged and grown introspective. He wasn't an expert at all about these things, and the Fey of his Troupe didn't know how to advise him. What he needed was Maeve.

Realizing this, Harry sent Ixipti to his godmother, the little Fey happy to relay the message. Though he'd never tried to get her attentions in such a way before, this he hoped was important enough to warrant it. Harry didn't want to think on how she would show displeasure at him directly.

Fears that were unfounded, as that morning Ixipti had returned with the message that she would come, as the sun started to fall.

That expectation a wellspring keeping him afloat, Harry had killed time by watching the little wizards and witches gawk at the town he and his had broken.

Afternoon came quickly to his darkened mind, and with it Maeve's Coach. The sound of the Kelpie's hooves on the flags that made up High Street resounded as thunder, the wood and bone of the carriage itself creaking and screaming behind the demonic team. Maeve's Coach slowed only as they approached him, waiting at the peak of the rise the Shack was built on. Harry stood and smiled, reaching up and nuzzling a fanged snout as one of the beasts snorted and leaned down, nudging him roughly.

He saluted the Coachman, who returned the gesture. Raith and Rede vaulted up the back of the Coach, as Grissnath and Tock came to pay their respects, Ixipti dashing out to cling to him while they exchanged pleasantries with the Winter Queen and her attendants. A trio of Banshees, pale as the Sluagh but where he was gruesome they were beautiful, attended Maeve today, and Harry greeted them all, smiling the while.

This was where he belonged, he thought. With the Fey, with his godmother. Not with the wizards. He just hoped that his arguments were convincing enough.

"It has been far too long, my dear child," Maeve whispered, her voice cast low as he stood before her. It had been more than a small while since the Winter Queen had seen her changeling, and what reports she received from the Coachman as he accompanied the Revel told her the youth was moving easily into his Fey nature. Far enough, coincidentally, for the the next portion of her plans.

Shaking his head, Harry ignored formality, lurching forward and wrapping his arms around the regal figure of his godmother. He buried his face in the light ruffle of her dress, a pretty fall of midnight blue against her skin that shone pale like moonlight. "I missed you," he managed, letting loose all the anger, despair and hurt inside him at her touch, small arms wrapping up and around his back. It wasn't the warmth of comfort he felt, but the cool relief that all of it, all the things he had been through were over. Looking up with naked hope, he stared back at the depthless black of Maeve's gaze, "Will you take me with you this time?"

Maeve drank in her changeling's emotions, pausing before answering the youth's pleading query. Her absence wasn't something she desired, but like him she would bend the town around them into greater depths. Her presence by necessity had to be limited, unless she wanted the entire population thrown into madness. It had gone too far already, yet she wasn't sorry of it.

Such a trivial confrontation was inevitable, she knew. Inevitable and necessary.

There was the question of his security, but she need not have worried on the loyalty of the Fey surrounding her changeling, Maeve discovered. Even her Coachman had felt the presence of the young man, the nexus of fate wound around him giving the youth a draw and charisma that their kind found enrapturing.

Placing such thoughts aside, she returned her attentions to her changeling's question, an unreadable expression on her pale features. Taking his hand she passed two small, beaten coins into his palm. "You will need those, this one time," she said with a bend of her lips. "I think it is time you see the seat of my Court," her lips continued on into a slow smile as Harry all but crowed in happiness at her side. "It is good to see you, Harry.

"And it is time to show you the world you want so much to be a part of. Come, the Unseelie Court will meet my Heir before I see you off to the world of stale magic and dusty knowledge."

Regardless of his excitement, Harry felt a hitch of apprehension in his chest at her words. Still, he had faith she would let him remain, if he could only speak with her. With Maeve, whatever pull that the castle school could offer would dull and die, he was sure.

"We ride openly, today," Maeve declared as she sat in the dark-paneled Coach. "Let none say that the Winter Court stand afraid to be seen." No matter, really. Glamor would do its work regardless; she could have the Coach drive up to the very Ministry, and unless she wanted, the humans there would find a way to shrug off such a fantastic phenomenon. There was no reason to ruin the moment for her Heir, though.

"Coachman!" Her call cracked the sky, and from the dull, gray autumnal canopy a brief fall of snow began dusting the nearby wood and fields. "We return to the Middleworld." Smiling to Harry, Maeve pulled him closer, settling the youth's head against her shoulder. "Now, it has been some time, and Ixipti tells me you have quite the gift for telling stories..."

A crack of a whip was the dire Rider's only response to her command, as he lashed the tethered Kelpies into a frenzy, the Redcaps howling in glee from the Coach's roof as the Winter Queen and her escort announced in clear tones their presence.

The Coach thundered and screamed down High Street, sending people scattering in all directions, before it faded from this world turning sharply to the west along a bend.

',',',',',','

"... and so he left. Mom said that she'd been worried to death he'd do just that, but well. You know the rest. My step-dad's great though. I really think it's better this way."

Dean snorted, laughing quietly, "Still, think he could have given you better taste in sports though. Kestrels? What kind of name is that?" He punctuated this with a flourish of his ball cap, proudly displaying his own allegiances to The Arsenal.

"Oi, leave off my team, git! Quidditch and Football are magnitudes apart!"

Hermione grinned behind her cup, observing the camaraderie and byplay at the table. Dean and Seamus were apparently from a single primary school, and had known one another for a small time. Since Dean's birthday and his own introduction to the magical world, he'd been more able to follow his friend's interest in Quidditch, yet his primary love would always be Football it seemed.

Mandy – Amanda Brocklehurst as she'd been introduced – sighed, making her curled hair held up in a tie bounce slightly. Contrasting her chestnut hair, she had stark and attentive blue eyes. These she rolled in exasperation at the two as they quarreled on, leaning toward the three girls at the table. "Su, you mentioned something about a library at the school?"

The little Asian girl, probably the smallest person in their class, jerked at the attention, pulled out of her reading. "Oh. Yes, there's a library at Hogwarts. Supposedly one of the largest public ones in Britain."

"Hmm," placing her tea cup on the saucer provided, Hermione considered the girl's words a moment. "That almost promises that there are larger private, or at least restricted access libraries."

"I would imagine so," the small girl commiserated. Su Li was one of the few Asian witches living in Britain, her family being ambassadors. Her attendance to Hogwarts was being made as much for her own education as a political motion, something she was ambivalent over. She had mentioned a cousin who was a year ahead of her, and hopes that they'd share a House at Hogwarts, if only to have a familiar face. "Still, it's a nice resource to have. I don't expect there to be much outside of our class focus there though."

This got Hermione's attention, and she mulled over the statement before nodding, a brooding frown beginning on her face. "Oh... yes. Yes, I think you're right. Why would a school that had to train in something like magic, have material outside of sanctioned lessons? It would be irresponsible and dangerous."

"Well there is a Defense Against the Dark Arts class," Su chirped in reply, wrinkling her nose. "Bit of a mouthful. 'Defense' then. Anyway," blushing a bit at her voiced internalization, she continued, "I'd imagine since we have a defense-based class, some of the material could prove rather interesting. We'll have to wait and see what the variety there is."

"Seamus, we have to stop this," Dean interrupted, his tone serious.

"I know," the Irish boy agreed, his expression grim. "We're not even official students yet, and they're discussing books and classes."

"There really isn't anything unusual in that," Hermione countered, frowning. "It's good to have some experience or foreknowledge about what you're doing, particularly when it comes to something that may affect the rest of your life."

Hermione stalled, as Mandy laid a calming hand on her arm, "Hey, we're not dismissing school as unimportant. And yes, I agree with them. I'm glad there's a library, as that'll give me something to write home about," shrugging the girl bounced back in her seat, grinning. "My mom's a publisher. I was more interested in seeing magical book printing and binding."

Dean stood and looked to Seamus, sharing a significant look. The shorter Irish boy shook his head slightly, to which Dean narrowed his eyes, causing the other boy to sigh and nod. "Right! Then, before school starts, I want to have an idea what it's like around this town."

"But we've had a tour," Hermione countered, looking between the two boys uneasily. She knew plotting when she saw it, being on the receiving end too often in school already.

Nodding, Seamus plucked Su's magazine out of her hands, getting an angry yell in return. "We've gotten the official tour," he said with a smile, folding the girl's reading and handing it back to her, once she was standing. "Now we're going on the _unofficial_ one."

Mandy looked to Hermione, who bit her lip and shrugged. "It could be interesting. I'm sure there's more here than the main street."

Hermione wasn't convinced. "What if it's dangerous?"

"Then it wouldn't be out in the open, would it?" Dean replied, already moving down the street toward Hogwarts a few paces. "Come on, I've heard about it and want to see for myself."

Su followed for three steps before coming to a stop suddenly, causing Seamus to windmill and sidestep to avoid running the small girl over. "No! You're not thinking-"

"Yep!" Seamus answered easily, waving the two girls still at the table on. "We're going to see the most haunted building in magical Britain!"

Amanda and Hermione shared a look, and joined the three out in the milling street. "Are you sure it's real? I mean, I've read _The Prophet_ like anyone, but it's rubbish," Amanda asked, getting an excited nod from Dean. In a low voice she added, a blush tinging her cheeks, "I wonder if Harry Potter really is there..."

"They say it really is haunted, but harmless. I overheard from the old man talking to McGonagall. He lives in the town, figure he'd know."

The boy's words did little to reassure Hermione, but seemed enough for the rest of the group. Honestly she was glad of the diversion, as having so little interaction in her school with people her own age, she was running out of planned responses and familiar territory.

Then again, this was far from familiar territory. She'd had little information to work off of, but the fact remained that in the magical world, ghosts were real, and a known haunted house in that world meant real ghosts. Nervously fidgeting with her hands, she was startled when Mandy took one of them, giving her a nervous smile in response.

"Scared?"

Hermione nodded, flushing slightly. "Yes. I'm... this is still very new."

The perky girl offered her a smile, even if it was tinged with her own anxiety, "Don't mind it, or those two. I think they're just trying to be boys. From what mom told me after I watched a scary movie, ghosts aren't all that bad."

"Really? I mean I'd assume at least _some_ of the non-magical references to them to be valid, considering the way information travels though it's expected for some deviation from the 'real', as it-"

Mandy giggled, clapping a hand gently over Hermione's mouth. "Slow down. You're babbling." The bushy-haired girl colored brighter in embarrassment but hushed. "Now, yes, there is some truth to it. Hogwarts had quite a lot of ghosts living there, yet they're harmless for instance.

"There are poltergeists too. Those can be problems, but this place?" Mandy shook her head, brown hair bouncing in its ponytail. "Probably just an old hermit, or a boggart."

Blinking and biting her lip, Hermione nodded and followed along quietly after that, not bothering to counter the girl's tenuous arguments with her own reasoning or follow up on a topic unknown, no matter how much she wanted to. Still, she filed away the unknown terms for later. Hermione was too happy for the small graces, the little inclusion to the group to chance the ostracism being too contrary here would almost guarantee. She stamped down the little voice that said, that rather than following logic, perhaps she was just afraid, afraid to make a misstep after chancing on this nice opportunity.

With a sigh, she was again reminded of a passage from a writing, this one a favorite, _"Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends – whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain."_ Austen was one her inspirations, and it wouldn't do to let this bit of insight be lost – regardless of how different her situation was from George Wickham's. Beginning friendships seemed easy enough... now if she could only reason out how to keep them.

Painting on a broad smile despite her inner dialogs, she pulled up beside a pensive Su Li, Brocklehurst in tow. "Come on girls, someone has to keep those two from embarrassing themselves." Su's face brightened at Mandy's words, as the three girls found equal footing and a common cause – keeping the boys from being boys.

"Dean," Su Li called, bringing the small group to a halt after they'd passed beyond the town proper and were nearly to the Shack. "You said you were muggle-born?"

The black boy nodded, indicating Hermione with a gesture as well, "me and her both."

"Hrm," brow furrowing, the girl paused a moment.

"Is there something wrong with being from a non-magical family?" Hermione's question caused a sour look to bloom on Seamus and Mandy's faces, and she looked between them a moment, waiting for one or the other to say something.

"Yes and no," Seamus began, while Dean and Su moved to the side to speak in low tones. "It's half politics and half racism, really." Licking his lips, the boy grumbled and turned, looking back toward Hogsmeade. "Sorry, sore topic. My mom's from a pureblood family, but she married my dad, who wasn't. Got kicked out of her family over it."

"That's barbaric!" Hermione blurted, getting a sharp look from Mandy and Su. Regardless, she continued hotly, "I mean really! Is it so important? To cause such a rift in family over?"

Mandy shook her head, but kept her eyes down. "In ways yes, and no. Purebloods, as they call themselves, like to keep power where they think it belongs, and to them it means in those pureblood families.

"Most are pretty insular, and work among each other with at least grudging respect. We'd recognize the social structure, being more involved with non-magical society, as resembling the 1700's," she finished.

Hermione was horrified to say the least. "But that's... wait. If she was kicked out, then they didn't approve. Which meant that likely they had a plan, and it was with a pureblood... arranged marriages?" Seamus nodded, and Hermione's pale complexion went crimson. "Barbaric, simply unbelievable."

"It's true, and not the worst," Su added, rejoining their conversation, Dean at her side. "Purebloods tend to pass on their values to their children as well, so we can expect to see that kind of separation at Hogwarts as well."

Dean had a cross look on his face, "I hope our teachers aren't so biased." The group nodded, feeling together a bit more nervous about the school.

"McGonagall seemed nice," Hermione offered, which set the group into small debate on whether 'nice' and 'smart' were as interchangeable as it seemed to the bushy-haired girl.

Su held up a hand, quieting their argument a moment, "Dean offered a point before," she said, and the group turned to the now nervous Football fan. "The purebloods seem to have good social and political networks. My parents are politicians, and if it wasn't for me being so new to Britain's traditions, I'd likely not have been invited. Though I'm in full support of this program.

"Digressing though," Su glared at the giggles that met her somewhat officious manner. "Dean had a point. We should set up our own network, a way to keep up with one another and pass on information among the half-blood and muggle-born."

"I'm all for it," Seamus declared with a nod. "My mom had to deal with a lot of garbage over her family. Could never get a solid job for a magical company because of it. Drove her out into the muggle world," his expression had turned stony as he went on, and Hermione winced at the implications behind his words. "If she had this kind of support, I bet she'd not have had such a hard way of it."

"Why I thought of it, really." Dean offered with a shrug. "I mean, I can already see problems. Look at me," he said it with a smile, but it was self-depreciating. "I'm black, a muggle-born and from a middle-class family. I was sneered at and half the storekeepers wouldn't even look at me, if not for Seamus."

As Dean spoke, Amanda began looking more and more annoyed. "Right. Lets do it then. We'll set up meetings at the school, once we're sorted and settled, and start networking. I'm not going to be pigeonholed because of something so stupid. Modern England isn't so backwards, and I could just as easily skip this and go to a University out there without worry, so lets make sure we can say the same for us."

"Agreed," Hermione declared, too concerned over what she'd heard to really comment further. So far, her expectations had fallen dramatically since meeting McGonagall. How much lower could they fall? Still, this boded well for one of her goals; make friends. If she wasn't mistaken, she was succeeding nicely so far.

The group of children continued, quieting as they crossed the line where the Shrieking Shack's boundary wall started. It was a low, careworn thing, all crumbling stones and moss and lichens. Its colors were strange, and she blamed that for the small movement she kept seeing. Looking to the others with her, she saw them shooting furtive glances at it as well, causing her to wonder. Minutes ago it seemed they had heard something, a shrieking not to be too silly about such things, coming from the direction of the small house ahead. The sound had put them on edge and they had slowed, and now were all but creeping ahead, feeling a gloom about the place regardless of the sun still overhead.

"What do you think that was?" Seamus' question went unanswered, as they kept on. None dared speak, out of fear and the worry that naming that sound would summon its source.

Pausing as a group, they five looked to one another and nodded, being just outside a gap in the wall that allowed the path they saw from High Street to rise up the hill. It was this pause that let Hermione hear the sound of voices, coming from the hilltop. "There's someone talking up there," she hissed, voice cast low.

"If there's talking, then likely they're not ghosts," Dean said, getting odd looks from a few others. "What?"

"Ghosts talk too, just... never mind. Can we go see? I want to get back to Hogsmeade," Mandy said irritably, but her voice warbled just the same.

As one, the group turned the corner, to be met with a rather curious sight.

Hermione's eyes widened, taking in the Coach and people outside it. She could immediately see why the Shack was so talked about – it was decrepit. At some point it would have been rather nice, but what looked like decades of wear that had gone unrepaired had settled on it with a singular vengeance.

The Shack wasn't what drew her eye though. Standing by the massive, strangely glossy coach, she could see... _people_. At least she had to assume them to be people. It put to question everything she'd known as fact and fiction to this moment to see it laid out before her in stark day, but her eyes could not be denied. There was magic, sure, and she was magical, but this... that man had no _head_! And that _thing_! had metal arms!

"Oh sweet Morgana, those are _Banshee_..."

Seamus' words startled Hermione out of her internalizations, and she focused on the group of women around the shorter, if more regal looking woman and swallowed, hard. A chill crept up her as she listened, hearing a thread of muted words, meaningless at this distance. Regardless of being unable to make out what was said, there was a tonal... _something_ that made her cringe. "Banshee?" She asked quietly, hoping the myths around them were false, like the ghosts Mandy had mentioned. False and not standing in defiance of unreality upon a nearby hilltop.

Seamus was backing away, pale and shaking with his hands clasped firmly over his ears, "Dire faeries, death's handwomen. I... I have to go." Turning, the boy ran for all he was worth back toward Hogsmeade, Mandy looking back and forth between the Shack, the other children now staring wide-eyed, and and the running boy.

"We should go. This is... way out of my experience," she said softly, trying to tug at Hermione's and Su's hands.

Su simply nodded and backed away, but Hermione was nonplussed, numbed. "It can't be so bad. I mean they're all talking to that boy."

Dean looked up the hill and turned, trotting to catch up with Amanda and Su. "Nothing normal up there, Hermione. C'mon. This was a bad idea."

"I'll catch up," she called quietly, as Dean shook his head and bent forward into a run.

Returning her curious attentions to the hilltop, she saw the Banshee follow the small woman, her gown making her look quite stately, back into the odd coach. It was a strange contrast – the coach looked nearly... rotten. Old and as decrepit as the house, yet a woman in such clothes rode in it. Her mind seemed to be working on separate tracks, and suddenly she was back to realizing that the driver had _no head_. "Oh god, this is weird," she muttered, crouching down to watch as the lot piled into the large coach, two of them actually climbing up with the driver, apparently without a care.

The last to enter was a small boy, small compared to the others near him. He looked to be her age, with hair black as the coach's panels and dressed in a simple long shirt and trousers. He seemed so out of place, but then the image was gone, as the door closed.

There was a crack, like thunder and Hermione winced, looking up and expecting clouds – only to see blue sky, and a flurry of stark white powder.

"Snow?" Her voice tiny, she held up a hand and indeed, the flake melted when it found a finger. So caught up in the impossibility of snow this early, and out of a blue sky she nearly missed the sound of the coach turning about.

She didn't miss the screaming call of the monstrously powerful looking horses that were leading the coach though. Dashing to the side by the wall, she jerked back again as the teamed horses passed, one leaning over hard and snap at her with a frothing, fanged maw, nearly stumbling in its efforts.

Her mind shut down as her eyes took in the coach with the detail of a photograph. The headless driver was lashing at the team with a barbed whip, one hand curled in the reins. Behind him... _it_... were two teenagers it seemed, laughing and hanging on to bone-white rails that rimmed the roof. Seemed being the right word, as her memory processed impossibly wide mouths full of shark's teeth, and clawed hands that looked strong enough to rip through the carriage's walls. The coach itself seemed made of rotting wood, slick with its own decay and shining in the light, with wheels spoked with knobby, yellow, lashed-together bones.

The noise of its passing faded, as her mind began to process the information, causing her to shudder where she lay, kneeling in the road.

"What kind of world am I getting into," she asked no one, blinking after the retreating form of the diabolic carriage.

',',',',',','

"Where are we?"

Maeve regarded her changeling quietly, dark eyes motionless for many moments. Outside the dire Coach the splendor and madness that was the Middleworld rolled, shadow and illusion painting across the carriage's interior in afterimages and reflection. "We are crossing the ways, Harry. We have left wholly the world of failing flesh and blood. As you wanted, this is Fey."

Harry took that to heart, and watched as an unknown world sped by his window. Clouds reached from the sky above, and passed below them in great pillars. Below he saw... nothing at all, but kept his panic at bay with little outward sign. If he were not with a carriage full of his godmother's loyal and Court, as well as Maeve herself, he'd not be so calm, Harry reasoned.

Lights flashed and rushed by, and he saw Fey, flying, racing, falling in equal measure, all trying to catch a glimpse of their passing. Beyond the colonnade of clouds he saw great masses of land, soaring and floating in the sky, stretches of forest and barren stone and glowing, wicked red pools that gave off thick clouds all about. If he were to try to explain what he saw, Harry realized the most apt word would be nightmarish. "Where is, what is the Middleworld?"

"It is the nature of who we are, the Unseelie," Maeve replied, her tone light. "From this place dark imaginings return, and also it is where they gain form. When the first dreamers and thinkers, the small animals and things with minds complex enough to fear and hope, began to have such powerful thoughts, this place began.

"From those dreams and dark hopes the Middleworld, this place sprang," Looking outside the Coach, Maeve seemed lost in thought a moment, before smiling softly. "We are shadows, my Harry. The living cast us upon the canvas of this world, with their expectations in their hands to shape us."

Shivering, Harry returned to gazing, seeing only the strange non-world around him. There was no earth, no sky. It was all one, a seamless background of steel and smoke. Those small places that looked like floating islands grew dense in places, thin in others. Harry tried to imagine how one passed from one place to another here, with little success.

"We aren't bound here, like dreamers would be," Maeve answered his unasked question, causing him to blink at her owlishly. With a burst of laughter, sounding as icicles falling against a frozen lake, she regarded him. "This is a world of thoughts made form, my Harry. Be careful what you dare imagine..."

Taking her words for what they were, a warning, he worked to keep his thinking on the trip alone and his immediate surroundings. He wanted desperately to ask, to speak with her about staying in this place but those thoughts fled. Harry would not have that conversation with any but Maeve.

Shortly the gentle sway of the Coach stopped, to be replaced by a harsh clatter of stones on wheel, as they slowed and stopped. The Banshee across from him stepped out, and Harry waited for his godmother's retinue to do so as well before he followed, then stared at what was laid out before him.

Again he was unprepared for the world that was presented to him. First his eyes were drawn to the ground and structure itself, a great temple in Greek style, open to the sky with grand columns that resembled in color and shape the clouds he'd seen before. These too stretched up to blend and fade into the very sky, causing him to wonder precisely what it was he stood on.

With him, though a distance away, spread the Court of Maeve, in all its twisted decadence. Maeve walked ahead, flanked and followed by her dire attendants, who sang lowly as she passed. Behind them he was beckoned on by the Coachman, and fell in stride along with Tock, Grissnath and the Redcaps. He quelled his anxiety, suddenly spiking as both the young Fey looked very, very nervous, not something he was used to at all.

Beyond them the Court spread, all manner of nightmares in attendance. Skitterkin so large as to seem like houses, great monstrous things he had no name for. Some were familiar, and he saw forms that had to be Redcaps, dire and wicked and only recognizable by familiar traits to his friend's own. These Fey stood tall, broad, and had skin worn deep with furrows and scars, hands that were in perpetual motion with their rending claws and mouths that seemed always snapping at those unwary nearby.

One of those, another of their kind by the appearance, strayed too close and was caught up, rent in three as easily as Harry would tear paper. Blood fell in a spray on those nearby, who screamed and clawed for the source.

Harry moved closer to his godmother, sparing a wary glance out of impulse to his long-time companions. Rede sighed, but closed the distance easily, laying a calming hand on his shoulder and smiling when he did not flinch away, "Harry... we are not, and do not want that."

"We are our own," Raith said, unseen at his back.

"We are with _you_," his sister said, a pale smile on her face. "Those not given... passage here, yourself and your Troupe, have to strive and fight to take their places. They have to strive beyond the mere ideas of themselves to become something more, something of distilled nightmare."

Again Harry looked out, watching the surge and struggle play before them, as Maeve walked along and up a high stair, leading to a throne that gleamed like crystallized moonlight. So small compared to some there, a few nearly the size of mountains it seemed. It was hard for him to bend his half-human mind to those forms, knowing in his heart that something so powerful simply could not be.

And yet, it bowed to Maeve, as she took her seat. The implications chilled him like no winter's wind.

"Take heed, my Court," Maeve's voice rang out, echoing easily across the shadowy expanse. "Today I have brought you a face to lay still your planning and plots.

"Yes, I know of them my Court," her voice had dropped to a wicked purr, and more than one of the nightmares before them shifted uncomfortably. "Yet here my Scion, my Heir stands. Proof of your inability to act against my will."

Harry, though some force he didn't know was propelled forward to stand by the diamond throne. With some effort he managed to stay upright – even standing tall – as tall as his eleven years would allow. Some fragment of Maeve's power surged through him, and he saw the Court for what it was then.

Ideas. Dreams. Hopes. All these shadow-born forms were pulled from the hearts and minds of things in the other world. He had been told as much, but to see it literally there, as if he could put a form to the idea of a dream of fear, was harrowing.

"You see that power now, my Harry?" Her whisper sounded as thunder to him, wrenching his mind to attention and drowning out everything else. Maeve's eyes pulled at him, drawing him down into impossible depths. "You understand what it is inside you, now?"

Harry nodded, sweat breaking out on his skin, despite the biting cold around them as a wall of sheer, blistering, cutting ice rose up in a great pillar around the throne. For the first time in her presence, Harry knew fear at the sight of his godmother.

Maeve looked down at him from her throne, wisp-wings of shadow and sparkling ice spearing out and crackling as they swept at the air languidly. "And you would give up that power so idly, my child?"

Harry faintly gaped at her. "That power? Impossible, I can't possibly-"

"Know your place," the words slapped at him like a physical thing, and Harry found himself kneeling, eyes cast down as he saw Maeve stand before him. He watched the ice, snow that swept around stinging him glance against her skin, pass through her as if she were so much mist. "I know what you are. I took you that night knowing what you were, what you will become. I saw the threads that bound you to the lives of those wizards, self important and posturing in their supposed age, and tore them apart, with little more than will."

Fingers of ice snapped out and raised his face, so he could look on that of the Winter Queen. "We are not your imaginings, we are beyond them, my Harry. Yet, you could be much more. What would you do here, in the Fey lands you hope to call home?"

"I... I don't know."

"Would you laze away your days in my Court, satisfied to simply sit by and see those things you think now are amazing?" Brittle, her words chipped at him. Something within him cringed away from her, this coldness so unlike those times she'd spoken with him before. "I am displeased with you, only in so much as you fail to see yourself as I do, my Harry."

Closing his eyes, Harry forced the words out, despite his fear, "What do you see in me?"

"You think I call you Heir so easily?" Hands now gentle, not the spears of winter's displeasure pulled him back to his feet. "Look at me, my Harry."

Raising his eyes to hers, Harry saw in them himself. Mirrors black and without end, he saw all the things she saw as well. Great and terrible things, where his Hunt had seemed a singular wicked edge he danced across with luck and the help of his Troupe he now saw to be only the first of endless battles. Battles waged against something he could hardly fathom being wielded against.

"Yes Harry. You will be my will, in more than that one thing. You think I would take one such as you so idly?" Maeve slipped around him, gentle, icy hands brushing at his simple clothes. "Do you fear it?"

"Yes, godmother."

Nodding, Winter offered him a bright smile, "Then you understand. Being who you are, who you will be, who I want you to become will be no easy thing. Will you serve me, my Harry? Be more than just another idle dream, without the will to dream itself?"

Harry met those eyes and nodded, knowing well that he stood tested here. He had passed the Revel she sat before him, to bring him closer to his Fey nature, but this...

This was a test of him, as her Heir. Something that if he refused, he had little illusion in having that torn from and left to his own devices, out among those that were nightmares among the damned. Trusting in that part of himself, he felt at that thread that bound him to Fey, that feeling he could sense growing weak in the deadened Hogsmeade he opened himself.

_'Kneel, Harry.'_

Nodding, Harry dropped back to his knees, letting his hands fall to his sides. To his left and right he could see the wall around them shatter, daggers lashing out and rending those too close to ribbons, while a sheen of ice coated everything. "You are bound by my blood, and I will know what truth, what lie you speak.

"Whom do you serve?"  
_'I am not just your godmother, my Harry,'_ he felt her speak to him, through that thread that bound them. _'Acknowledge me.'_

Harry took a deep breath of dead air, feeling its chill sweep out along his bones. "I serve you, my Queen."

Maeve slid her fingers through his unruly hair, the barest shadow of a smile on her lips. That expression froze on her lips at his next words, spoken through their tenuous link. _'You have been everything I'd wanted in what I saw others have. You cared when no one would, sent me friends to keep me company. Helped me understand my feelings, and came when I needed you. You may not have given me life, but you've given me a life to live.'_

To the Court, he added, as loud as her previous words, "I serve you, my mother."

Maeve hid her shock and her shattering core of a heart well from the Court around them. _'You are more dangerous than you know, my child. Truly? Is this how you feel...'_

_'You said yourself, you would know if I lie.'_ Harry paused, searching deep inside himself but knowing the words were truth. _'I don't know them. Those people you spoke of. I've never seen them, don't remember their voice or touch or kindness. I'm thankful to my birth mother for summoning you – that will never fade. I'm thankful to them for giving me this chance.  
'It was you, not them that saved me from those horrible relatives of mine. You saved me a second time, and that wasn't for them. It was just for me. You've been more a mother to me than anyone. I don't remember those people, and I'm sure if they were alive and able to see, they would agree. You've done more than any other.'_

Around them the Court was in an uproar, as the some of the Fey realized they had lost their chance to undo some plan of their Queen. Others cheered in abandon, those loyal to the Winter Queen, knowing her power would only increase with this step. Maeve stood at the maelstrom's center, unseeing anything but the earnest green of her changeling's eyes. "Well done, Harry," she breathed, feeling the spears of emotion beating at the fortress of her own heart. Walls that were breaking even as she watched. Before her Court, Maeve met her child, embracing him. Closing her eyes, the Winter Queen gave into those emotions pouring off her changeling, feeling for once like a leaf in the winter winds she so often loosed into the world. With an audible sigh, she pulled together but did not close those doors to her heart.

Behind Harry, her hands snapped into wicked claws, gleaming and slick, that pointed to his back. "Do you trust me, my Harry?"

Maeve felt his mind speak to her, say yes, felt his nod against her shoulder, and so tore through and into his back with those sickles of ice. She held him by will upright as his blood flowed, then stilled, then sizzled and swept up as she pulled something black and formless, shot with blue and crystal from his shoulders. With a rending scream the boy shuddered, as Maeve stretched those weak pinions to the merciless air for the first time.

As he slumped to the floor, weak and with the feeling of a puppet with its strings cut, Harry saw the blurry image of Maeve cradling him in her lap. Leaning close he could imagine that there was a trace of wetness around her eyes, as she spoke. "What kind of Fey would you be, my child, without wings?"

Harry's eyes closed, a smile brief on his lips before darkness swept him away. His last thought as he sank gratefully into it, "She gave me wings..."

',',',',',','

"Couldn't have been what you think, Hermione."

Huffing, the young girl crossed her arms, and glared across the table at the three who looked anywhere but at her. "You're saying those weren't Banshee then, Seamus? What were you afraid of then?"

"Look, they were probably just going to a party or ball. People dress weird for less, you know," the Irish boy replied, obviously uncomfortable.

"Hermione," Mandy's hand on her shoulder was firm, and took the glare out of her eyes as the bushy-haired girl sighed. "Sometimes this... sometimes magic will look like one thing and be something wholly else. Sure the carriage ran through town and vanished. I don't know any kind of magic that can do that."

Su Li nodded beside her, as the boys stirred at their drinks uncomfortably. "She's right. That had to be an illusion, or prank."

"But I..." heaving a sigh, Hermione let her head fall onto her crossed arms, shaking it slowly. "I really saw it."

"We did too, but," pausing, Dean leaned back in his chair and stretched, a nervous habit they'd picked up on that he had. "Sometimes things that look too strange to be really are just that."

"Magic," Hermione said dispassionately. Knowing the children around her were nodding. A touch of cold on her neck had her shivering, as she lifted her head, seeing the others around her looking up at the sky with confused expressions.

Much as it had for an instant earlier, when the coach had nearly ran her down, she saw snow beginning to fall from a clear sky. This time there was no brief shiver of flakes though. In an instant blue sky was replaced with a blinding flurry as blizzard-ridden winds lashed down the street, laying a glaze of ice on everything in an flash.

Witches and wizards screamed and ran for cover, as loose boards and menus were ripped free and sent flying. Hats, cloaks and parasols from the cafe spun out of hands and into the wind, as people sought cover from the sudden blast of unusual cold.

Looking out of shielded eyes, Hermione hoped to catch a glimpse of something – maybe the coach or a hint that it wasn't just an illusion, but only saw a single girl looking back at the wind as if it had a face. Her red cloak whipped around her form, unbending to the winds that ripped the loose tiles off buildings and still showed no sign of lessening. That same wind blinded Hermione from further observations, only letting her get a glimpse of a girl she could have sworn was in their orientation tour that day.

',',',',',','

A/N:

This is going to conclude Fairy Tale and let me move on to the next segment, which will comprise Year One, Grimm: The Sorcerer's Apprentice

Final stats as of publish: 96,756 words, 10 chapters, 101 reviews, 27,000 views, 10,400 viewers, 53 C2's, 186 Favorite list adds, 253 Alerts. Thank you all for the support, and the next segment should begin soon.


	11. A Gentle Reminder

–

Winter returns within the month.

This is a polite note_  
slothful childe  
_to all of you who for some reason_  
if you can't say anything nice..._  
still have Grimm I listed on alert, despite_  
...say it with blood, shadow, and ice..._  
its complete status. The story will continue_  
as if the likes of you could stop me, girl_  
in a separate work, Grimm II, that you_  
our legend will never be stilled_  
may locate from my profile shortly_  
so mote it be_  
where it will appear

_Why a month? Because I say so. _

–


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